Remember the Stone
by aerowan
Summary: The Blight is over. Brosca mourns her fellow Warden, who is already being called the Hero of Ferelden. Orzammar holds nothing for a dwarf marked as outcast from birth. What does a dwarf do when there's nothing left? Go after the witch who could have saved her Prince. And then a broken Eluvian sends her spinning through all time and space. All Origins; past Brosca/Aeducan.
1. On Loose Sand

_I hate funerals_, Natia Brosca decided. She wouldn't have one herself, when the time came: she would rather her corpse be burned, as the humans did, than returned to the Stone which had cast her out. But it was a fitting end for the Prince Aeducan. He had looked towards Orzammar every day, and deeply regretted the split between his brothers which had -in the end- led to both of their deaths.

"My friends, we are gathered here today to pay our respects to the Grey Warden who saved us all." Alistair looked grave, wearing his new, golden armour, the same the late King Cailan had worn before being cut down at Ostagar. "He gave his life to destroy the Blight, a sacrifice we must never forget. It was no accident that he was there, either. He was special, and each of us has had our life touched by him in some way. He put me on this throne, and showed me how important it was I be here. The Grey Wardens couldn't have asked for anyone finer. How do you properly honor someone like that? The Grey Wardens are building a magnificent tomb at Weisshaupt, right next to Garahel's, but I'd like to do something as well. Gorim of House Aeducan, please step forward."

Nat had only met the other dwarf once before, when their group had first gone to Denerim seeking the Chantry scholar Brother Genetivi. He stood forth now, looking grave, his armor shined to a polish that it had lacked in the merchants' quarter.

"You were Duran Aeducan's manservant?"

"I was, until he was exiled from Orzammar. I was quite sorry to see him go."

_Not that sorry_, Natia thought, watching him. He did seem genuinely sorrowful that the Prince was dead, but his hair wasn't cut in mourning. She wondered if he'd cut it when he'd first been exiled to the surface, thinking his liege dead in the Deep Roads, and thus didn't feel he had to do so again.

"I understand that the king has asked for the body to be sent back to Orzammar?"

"Well, no disrespect meant but we don't burn our dead. We bury them in the ground, return them to the Stone," Gorim said. "And the King says that he's to be buried in Orzammar next to his father, as an Aeducan. All honors restored."

Nat wondered if anyone present- other than she, Gorim, and Oghren- knew exactly how significant that was. The humans probably thought that they were backwards heathens, of course, and the elves- she didn't have any idea how they treated their dead, actually. To be buried next to his father, as an Aeducan once more: Duran would have loved that. But he was dead, and thus felt nothing any longer. She wished she could share that non-feeling.

"That's good. I've spoken with King Harrowmont. Ferelden will be sending men to help keep the darkspawn at bay. We won't ignore the dwarves any longer." Alistair glanced over at her briefly. She knew he was wondering if she'd take him up on his offer to lead the Warden outpost in Orzammar. There would be plenty of new recruits to manage; it would certainly keep her busy.

"Glad to hear it, your Majesty." The redheaded dwarf bowed and stepped back again.

"Let all know that the arling of Amaranthine, once the land of Arl Howe, is now granted to the Grey Wardens. There they can rebuild, and hopefully live up to this example. Friends, let us hope that he has gone on to a better place and that he knows just how thankful we are for what he has done here." Alistair looked down at the body of Prince Duran Aeducan, laid out in peaceful repose. "You will be missed, my friend. By us all."

* * *

Gorim left with the procession carrying the Prince Aeducan's body to Orzammar, as he had been restored to the Warrior Caste. Natia didn't say a word to him; he didn't know that her relationship with the Prince Aeducan had been much improved since their early days of working together. Natia climbed the walls of Denerim and sat on the edge watching them go until the last gleam of metal had disappeared into the distance, then watched a bit longer, wishing hopelessly that it was all a lie, a practical joke, that the Prince Aeducan would come riding back down the road and laugh and call-

"Hey, Brosca!" a familiar voice hollered, and Natia jerked out of her imaginings to scowl at the probably already drunk dwarf on the ground below. "Come on down, there's a party to get to and a King to crown!"

"Nug-humper," she called back, but got down from her perch anyways. If she didn't show up, they'd probably send Zevran to find her, and she didn't feel like listening to him go on about the fleetness of life and the ephemeral nature of love, especially not after she'd seen his earring glinting in Darrian's ear. _Love is for fools_, he'd told her some months ago, _you only get one life- so you might as well spend it having a good time, no?_

Alistair had insisted on delaying the coronation until the Prince Aeducan's funeral, which was all well and good but it meant that everyone else was moving on from mourning. She knew they had to; Denerim, and all of Ferelden, was still in ruins- but that didn't mean she liked it. Oghren, at least, knew how she felt; he'd spent three years in mourning for the wife who'd left him to march her whole House into the Deep Roads, only to find that she was still alive and they had to kill her. Duran had only died a few days ago.

"Get drunk," Oghren had advised her, looking far more melancholy than usual, and mostly sober for once. "Get very drunk, then go hit things with a big stick."

"I'm no berserker," she had scoffed in reply, but now it sounded good. She would love to take out her fury on Urthemiel, but the Archdemon was dead and gone and with it her Prince. She'd have to settle for the practice courts later.

Said redhead dwarf waited for her at the base of the wall, grinning widely. "Our Alistair, King of Ferelden! Who'da thought it, eh?"

"World works in strange ways," said Natia with a philosophical shrug. "Who knows, maybe you'll end up Commander of the Grey."

Oghren made a crude gesture and pointedly did not offer her any of the dwarven ale he'd pilfered from the Orzammar warriors.

They picked their way through the rubble, taking a meandering path through the former merchants' quarter, taking a shortcut through the elven quarter- they called it an alienage, Ancestors only knew why- and cutting through what used to be a brothel.

The crowds had already gathered in the streets to watch the royal procession, Alistair Theirin and Elyssa Cousland in the lead, sweep majestically up towards the Chantry, which had miraculously escaped the beating the rest of the city had taken. The former Queen came behind them, to give them her crown in a symbolic transfer of power, and retinue of multiple officials went behind them.

Natia and Oghren fell in with the procession as it went by them, Oghren even refraining from making any crude jokes and ruining the solemnity of it all. Darrian Tabris raked his long blond hair back and grinned at her, his earring flashing in the bright sunlight.

"Hey, little dwarf! I hope you have a speech ready- you are the Best Man, after all." His hand snaked out to tussle her mourning-short hair, and she dodged it easily, rolling her eyes at him.

"Yes, I know. I still don't see why. Sodding Alistair, why'd he have to do that? Daylen would be a better choice, I mean he's actually a man..."

Zevran Arainai, walking on the other side of Darrian, chuckled softly. "I am sure Neria agrees with you there, my dear Warden," he said, wiggling his eyebrows, and Natia rolled her eyes again. Too often, their assassin seemed a purely sexual being. He had never understood Daylen Amell's non-sexuality, and still didn't understand why he and Neria Surana loved each other. He convinced himself they had a secret sexual relationship and made innuendos whenever he could to cover up his own confusion. She remembered when she'd first seen him, raising daggers in preparation to attack, murder in his eyes, and then hesitation when he'd seen the size of their party.

"There are rather more of you than I'd been led to believe," he'd said, and laughed. "The Wardens may not die here, but I will give you something to remember!"

Darrian bumped the other elf gently with one shoulder. "This is meant to be a solemn occasion," he said seriously, bright eyes dancing. "Alistair and the Bloodhound are getting married and crowned today, after all!"

Nat couldn't help it; she laughed. Trust the city-bred elf to keep calling Elyssa Cousland by her hated nickname. "I dare you to toast the Bloodhound at their wedding feast," she said, only half-joking; imagining the noblewoman's expression would keep her entertained for weeks. "Where is Neria, anyway? I see Daylen.."

The tall dark-skinned mage was absorbed in his own world, as he so often was. She noticed that he'd shorn off his beard, perhaps in mourning for the Prince Aeducan- she had. His normal rich mage robes were nowhere in sight, nor was his elegant staff; she supposed that even though he was a Warden, the sight of a loose mage would make people frightened. His usual companion, the slender elven mage Neria Surana, was not visible. Normally, her bright white hair let her stand out in any crowd.

Elyssa's mabari, Calenhad, bolted, barking madly, after a couple of stray cats in a nearby alley. Another dog raced after him, unusual in its shaggy black-and-white fur.

"There she is," said Darrian, not pointing. All of them knew what Neria looked like shapeshifted into a dog.

The doors of the Chantry swung open, admitting everyone. Alistair and Elyssa were swept up by a crowd of Chantry lay-sisters, who probably intended to get them out of their ceremonial armor and into the regal clothes preferred by the nobility. Nat wondered if they'd manage to get Elyssa into a dress. Probably not. The Bloodhound never enjoyed wearing formal clothes, though she should have been used to it as the daughter of a Teyrn.

"Come on, come on, we're all sitting up here," Leliana appeared out of nowhere, urging them towards the front of the Chantry. Rows of wooden benches were filling up; the Orlesian meant for them to sit in the reserved seats at the front. "Natia, you sit at this end, that way you'll be able to see."

Leliana could be condescending sometimes, though she never meant it that way. Nat stood aside to let the others file into the pew and ended up sitting next to Neria, now back to her regular self, dressed as comfortably as Nat was.

"No dogs allows, eh?" she said in an undertone, chuckling.

"Hush," ordered Neria, face poker-blank, but her blue eyes smiled.

A Chantry woman in brightly coloured robes stepped up to the dais and began to speak, spinning a tale of their year fighting the Blight: how they'd gathered allies from all four corners of Ferelden, how they'd destroyed the Archdemon, how Alistair had saved the country from civil war by executing Loghain Mac Tir after defeating him in single combat in the Landsmeet. She spoke of how bravely they had fought against the darkspawn: how the brave Prince Aeducan had died after delivering the final blow to the great dragon-demon, how well Alistair and Elyssa had led the forces in routing the remnants of the darkspawn horde. Nat didn't pay much attention, instead finding her gaze riveted on the stained glass windows._ The Maker has turned his face from us, the Chantry teaches. I can believe that. Never really thought the Ancestors had any power- that was Duran's belief, though. Remember the Stone, he always said. Remember the Stone from which we came and to which we shall return. Well, how are you liking the Stone, my prince?_

A stir in the crowd brought her back to herself. Alistair, looking kingly in red and gold clothes, and Elyssa, looking beautiful with her long auburn hair for once out of its braid, walked up the aisle together. They had managed to get her out of her black Cousland leathers into a dress, and she looked far more the part than Alistair, walking with the quiet noble dignity that she had learned from her parents.

The two knelt before the dais and the Chantry woman spoke a few words over them, her hands raised in benediction; Nat didn't listen to what she said, instead closely watching the faces of her human friends. Elyssa looked refined, noble, born for duty; none of Alistair's apprehension was visible on his face. In his regal clothes, he looked very similar to the late King Cailan, though he didn't look as kingly as he did in his half-brother's golden armour.

"Rise, Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden! Rise, Elyssa Cousland, Princess-Consort!"

* * *

Natia Brosca had sworn off of drinking after what had happened that night in the Deep Roads, so she didn't stay at the post-coronation party; she made an appearance, but soon left for the peace of the practice courts, unable to stand the sight of so much good cheer. She felt as if the world had ended with the Prince's death, but here it was, moving on as if nothing had happened. They could have had another thirty years. Why didn't they have another thirty years?

Darrian found her while she was throwing knives into one of the man-shaped targets. "We'll be leaving soon," he said in an undertone, leaning down so she could hear him. "Zevran has some...unfinished business with the Crows, and I've got to watch his back."

"I'd offer you a hand, but Antiva isn't exactly my cup of tea," said Nat, hefting a throwing knife in her left hand. She hadn't practiced with her off-hand for a while; her skills were getting rusty. "And they might object to a Carta dwarf showing up on their territory."

The elf laughed. "I would accept the offer, my dear dwarf, if you weren't as subtle as a rampaging bear."

He spun one of her knives between long fingers, then his hand blurred forward and the knife struck the target at a bad angle. Nat scowled; again, she hadn't noticed him picking her pocket. She wasn't much of a thief.

"Still haven't got the hang of it," he muttered, and shrugged carelessly. He was a better pickpocket, but couldn't throw knives to save his life. Couldn't throw grenades or poisons, either, and definitely couldn't be trusted around a bow.

"So when are you going? You can't miss the wedding feast."

"Of course not. We'll slip out before dawn, while our new King and Queen are too busy with each other to assign us duties." Darrian cartwheeled around Nat as she walked to the target and pulled out her knives. "Speaking of duties, have you made up your mind yet?"

"I'm not going back to Orzammar," Nat said, avoiding the question, and yanked out the final knife with a particularly vicious tug. "Those nug-shit deeplords can go and swive themselves."

"I take it you haven't shared this bit of wisdom with our fearless leader." He handed back her knives, which-again-he'd taken without her noticing.

"The Bloodhound doesn't want me going down there anyways- thinks I'll have the deeplords ready to remove the Wardens from Ferelden again within a day." Nat smiled slightly. "She's probably right. They're already squabbling over whether or not to make the Prince a Paragon, what _would_ they make of me?"

"You can travel with us out of Denerim, if you want to avoid that, then," the elf said. He sat on the fence that bordered the practice courts. She climbed up to sit next to him, legs dangling over the ground comically.

"Very generous of you. Listen to you and Zevran? I gag at the thought." She didn't voice her true reason: she hoped that Alistair would give her something to do, anything to do, that would keep her mind off of loose sand.

"Ha!" Darrian jumped down. "Well, if you change your mind, we'll be leaving at the fourth hour after midnight. I think Zev's pirate friend is going to give us a lift."

"Atrast tunsha." She paused for a moment, then added quietly, "Don't get yourself killed, salroka."

* * *

The post-coronation party transitioned easily into a grand wedding feast, at the end of which the new King and Queen would depart as newlyweds to enjoy their new palatial quarters. Before they said their vows to each other, Nat came back in her finest formalwear, a gift from her Prince that he'd gotten for her in Orzammar, and stood on a table to deliver a speech and a toast.

"Evening, ladies and gents- and you over there, you're no gent, you're a bloody dwarf, evening to you too!" She poured herself a glass of ale and held it up. "We're here today to celebrate the union between two of the oldest, noblest bloodlines in Ferelden, the union which will resolve a year of civil war. And by that I mean Alistair and Elyssa, here, didn't exactly get along from the beginning! In fact, I think they still hate each other. Why else would I hear loud sounds coming from- why are you looking at me like that, Alistair? I think it's a good thing that she can yell louder than you."

Nat grinned at the beet-red Alistair and winked at the normally composed Elyssa, who had a flush on her cheeks, clearly repressing the urge to throttle her new husband's "Best Man."

"I'm not sure why Alistair chose me as his Best Man-well, Best Dwarf, anyways. But I'm honored to stand by his side today and bless this marriage. You couldn't have picked a better one, Alistair, although I'm sure she could have picked better than you- I mean, you're only a human, after all." Nat winked broadly and raised her glass. "Valos atredum, my good friends! May you live long, happy lives and have twenty loud children!"

The assembled crowd let out a loud cheer and many of them tapped their glasses with their spoons, which meant the still red Alistair and Elyssa had to turn and kiss.

"The bedding! The bedding! A wedding and a bedding!" A chant struck up, and amidst the laughter Nat drank her ale in one long pull and hopped off the table, thumping the glass down on the formerly white tablecloth as she went. The newlyweds stood, holding hands, and ran out the back door to avoid the crowd, which suddenly wanted a traditional bedding.

"Ah, weddings," said Oghren in a nostalgic voice, and wiped a tear from one eye. "Beautiful speech, Brosca!"


	2. Voices in the Deep

_voices, voiceless_  
_in the deep_

_wake us wake us_  
_from our sleep_

_sister sister_  
_of the stone_

_mother mother_  
_please come home_

_wake us WAKE US_  
_from our sleep_

_voiceless voices_  
_in the DEEP_

Nat jerked awake with a gasp, heart racing, and automatically her hands searched for her usual bed companion. Her thoughts were focused on the dream she'd had: dragons, each of them as terrible-as wonderful-as Urthemiel, sleeping buried deep beneath the earth, farther than any dwarf had gone in an Age. Her bed was too small, where was Duran, why had he not stayed with her tonight? She remembered his warm eyes, looking at her with far more tenderness than she deserved-those eyes glowing bright, his entire body glowing bright, his soul burning with the corrupted Old God-

"-No," she whispered, and covered her face with one hand.

For a long minute she wept. She hadn't truly cried in years, not since her father had left them to try his luck on the surface. She hadn't cried when her Prince fell, hadn't cried at the funeral, hadn't cried when she watched his body leave for Orzammar. Now it felt as though all of her grief was choking her, filling her throat and lungs and stomach until she gasped for breath. She lurched away from her tangled blankets to dunk her head in the cool water of her washbasin, nose and mouth and eyes burning, and held herself underneath until she felt she had control again.

The Denerim clocktower tolled five times. She had missed her chance to leave with Darrian and Zevran. She wasn't entirely sure if that was a bad thing. She'd miss the two elves, but she wouldn't know what to do with herself. Now she was committed to whatever course of action the new Warden-Commander had for her. _Who will be the new Commander_, she wondered, _it can't be Alistair or Elyssa-or Tabris, for that matter..._

She put her mind off it. Such thoughts didn't have to concern her; she was only a Carta thug, after all. She made her bed as neatly as she could, pulled on her newly clean Warden armour, and climbed up to sit on the windowsill. In the dark, she couldn't see much of the city, and clouds covered the stars- but in the distance, she could just make out the lighthouse, warning ships away from the shore and guiding them towards the deeper harbour.

The sky gradually lightened, and eventually she was able to see the whole city laid out like a portrait outside her window. Beyond, she saw merchant ships finally returning to Denerim, probably laden down with goods and displaced refugees alike. And then the sea, still half-visible from the night's fog.

A sharp rap on her door disturbed her some time after the sixth hour. She turned her head toward the door but otherwise did not move. "Yes, who is it?"

"Message, ser," said a young voice. "From Warden Amell. 'M not quotin' 'im exactly, ser: 'Come t' the Warden compound at once. We 'ave a letter from Weisshaupt.' Ser, do y'know where Warden Tabris is? I can't find 'im to deliver my message to 'im."

"Don't worry about the message to Warden Tabris, he's left the city," Nat said. She jumped down from the windowsill and opened the door, fishing in her pocket. A young elven boy stood there in a fine new tunic of Theirin colours; she vaguely recognized him as one of the orphans they'd rescued from the Tevinter slavers. She gave him a copper piece in thanks and he left at a trot, calling a thanks over his shoulder.

"Might as well get going now, then," she said under her breath. Would she return to the palace? Probably not. She took a minute to pack all the things she wanted to keep into her rucksack, slipped her visible daggers onto her belt, and blew out the candle on her bedside table.

* * *

The Warden Compound was much improved from when she'd seen it last, before they'd left for Redcliffe in a tearing hurry. The dust and cobwebs were gone, the candle stubs had been replaced, and the broken chairs had been used for firewood. The replacement chairs looked like they'd been in storage for some time, but they had comfortable blue cushions. Neria and Daylen were already seated by a desk in one of the front rooms. Nat dropped her rucksack near the door and followed suit.

"I'll assume that you know Darrian was planning to leave the city this morning," said Daylen, looking unusually focused on the living world, sharp eyes catching hers. "He's nowhere to be found."

"I thought he'd told you- he told me yesterday," said Nat, raising her eyebrows. "He and Zev both, they're on their way to Antiva. Left before the fifth bell this morning."

Neria, seated on Daylen's right, smiled and shook her head. Daylen sighed. "I was planning to...but I suppose I'll offer you the job, too." He said it dourly, already anticipating her answer. "Neria already refused it."

"What job?"

"We got a letter from Weisshaupt- came in with a ship yesterday, and a runner found me this morning saying that there's a letter for us here. It's from the First Warden. He commends us on the quickest defeat of a Blight in all history, and says that we are free to choose our new Commander of the Grey. He also says we must begin sending reports to the Chamberlain of the Grey, the senior archivist at Weisshaupt, starting with a full account of what happened here during the Blight." Daylen passed the letter to her to read. Nat, who had only learned to read recently and with no great proficiency, merely glanced over it. The First Warden's personal seal was affixed at the bottom- two griffons addorsed, wings elevated, a banner clutched in their claws. On the banner was written something Orlesian.

"And you want _me_ to take the job?"

"Neria's going to be _our_ archivist- she'll need you to submit a report on what happened in the Deep Roads, by the way, since you're the only Warden alive that was there." Daylen put the letter away in the top right desk drawer. "There are two possibilities for you, then: since Alistair's gone and promised support for the dwarves, we need to man the Warden compound in Orzammar. Either you become the Warden-Commander of Ferelden and restore Vigil's Keep and Soldier's Keep, or you run the compound below, and direct operations in the Deep Roads. Also, all the Wardens who go on their Calling will come through your compound."

"Aren't there two Keeps on the surface that have to be manned?" Nat grumbled. "Why can't I run one of those?"

Neria pulled out a sheaf of papers and pushed them across the table. "These are the papers you'll have to fill out pretty much weekly if you become Commander of the Grey. There's a seneschal coming, but these reports still need to be done by the Commander, not a subordinate. On the other hand," she divided the papers in half and tapped the stack on the left, "you'll only have to do these ones if you go to Orzammar. Once a month, a Warden will come by to collect them."

Nat let her head thunk down on top of the table, and then once more, before she straightened and smiled her best Noble-Hunter smile. "Of course I'll run the compound in Orzammar! Don't want to keep you from the pleasure of so much paperwork, Daylen. I know you love to write."

Daylen shrugged philosophically. "It was either me or let them bring in an Orlesian, and you know how well _that_ would go over."

"As smooth as nug shit," agreed Nat. "Fine, fine. Give me the sodding papers to fill out."

* * *

It wasn't as easy to leave with official support as it would have been to slip away in the dead of night, as Darrian and Zevran had. There were more ceremonies, plus a post-wedding feast during which everyone chuckled and gave each other knowing looks, and papers to fill out and reports to make. Nat's report of what happened in Orzammar and the Deep Roads was five pages long, detailing all the tasks which Harrowmont told them to do, the long trek in the Deep Roads, and the fate of Branka and her House. She left out everything personal, though; that was no business but hers, now that Duran had returned to the Stone.

Her armour, which had been half-destroyed in the Final Battle, was replaced by a fine set of Grey Warden leathers. She thought she looked odd in blue and silver, and told the Armsmaster as much, only to be told that it was _azure_ and_ argent_, the Grey Warden colours, and she had to wear them. She was given a shield with the Wardens' rampant griffon, also argent on azure, though she knew she would never use it, and plenty of supplies; it took three wagons to finally send her off. Alistair gave her his official warrant of troops to give to King Harrowmont, saying that he would send the rest of the soldiers within a month. He and Elyssa swung her around like a child, then Daylen carried her on his shoulders to her caravan. Neria sat in the lead wagon with her for most of the morning before flying back to Denerim as a swooptail, a bird common to Lake Calenhad which she'd learned to shift into.

Nat had never been in command of anything before, not even back when she'd worked for the Carta. She had learned from watching Duran and Elyssa, and recently Alistair, but wasn't really sure how to put that into practice for herself. Elyssa had advised her to devise rules and punishments for breaking those rules, for all those under her command; Warden recruits would be hers until they went to either Vigil's Keep or Soldier's Keep, but the Ferelden soldiers would only remain in Orzammar under her command for four months before they were exchanged for another group.

Sergeant Alden, a robust redhead, rode next to her wagon; they made conversation, talking about how the trip to Orzammar would go. There were two sergeants in the group, which meant she had thirty-two soldiers all told, not counting their escort; several of them wanted to be Wardens once they finished their three years in the Ferelden army. Alden came from Bann Winter's Breath, where he'd served as a guard for ten years, and Captain of the Guard for another five before the call to arms came from Denerim and the army gathered at Ostagar. He was one of the lucky few who managed to escape the battle, though he admitted that he had felt like a coward at the time, leaving King and countrymen to die a terrible death. Most of his detachment were also from that bann, though they had enlisted post-Ostagar.

The other sergeant rode at the rear, and Nat didn't get a chance to officially meet him until they broke camp for the night. There was a Rivaini ancestor evident in his colour and features, but his eyes and voice were Ferelden and it was clear that his men respected him despite his foreign grandparent. Sergeant Marlon was slender to Alden's beefy, with eyes that sparkled and an easy smile. He wasn't a big talker, but when he spoke they all listened.

As the commander, she had the option to sleep in one of the wagons, but chose to bed down on the ground with the rest of the men instead- she knew they'd respect her more if they saw her as willing to do what it takes. Something about being on the road made her dreams ease, and as the days passed and lowlands turned into the Frostback Mountains her grief abated. As a Warden-Constable, running this outpost, she would do her best to protect the city that her Prince had loved. She would make it strong once more.

* * *

It took them two weeks to make it from Denerim to Orzammar with thirty soldiers and three wagons full of supplies. When they finally arrived, the guards at the gates of Orzammar refused to let the humans in on King Harrowmont's orders, although they said, quite graciously, that the wagons of supplies would of course be taken inside- commandeered by dwarves.

Nat woke up from her afternoon nap in the back of a wagon to raised voices. She straightened her rumpled Warden tunic, made sure her shield with the Warden griffon was quite visible on her arm, and made her way to the front of the caravan. There were four guards standing in front of the closed gates, and Sergeants Alden and Marlon looked quite upset.

"What's going on here?" she demanded. "Guards, I am Warden-Constable Natia Brosca and we are expected. Let us in!"

"Sorry, Warden," said one. "The gates are closed to outsiders, by King Harrowmont's decree."

"Am I allowed inside? These men are under my direct command - they won't interfere in Orzammar. They will only be going into the Deep Roads." Brosca pulled the slightly crumpled letter addressed to King Harrowmont from her tunic, straightening the edges. The Ferelden royal seal had started to peel a little, but her body heat had softened it up and now it looked good as new. Well, mostly. "Paragon Duran and I were assured when we brought the crown back from Paragon Branka that we would have Orzammar's full cooperation."

The guards looked nervous now.

"I'm sure King Harrowmont would let you through," said one, shifting from foot to foot, glancing at his fellows. "You were a close companion of Paragon Duran, after all. Go right on in. We won't stop you."

They went quickly, in case the guards changed their minds; the wagons could not enter Orzammar, so they carried everything in to the defunct Warden compound next to the entrance of the Deep Roads themselves, four soldiers staying with the wagons and the rest ferrying everything over several trips. The wagons were sent back empty to Denerim with the five soldiers who had escorted them.

Within an hour Brosca determined that the Warden compound simply would not do. It had been built decades, perhaps centuries, before to house the Wardens who came for their Calling. It was not built to house thirty-two humans and a dwarf. Luckily she had thirty-two men and women with her who were not unfamiliar with hard work. They had surely been used to help rebuild Denerim before being assigned to Orzammar.

And she still had a few contacts in the City of Stone.

"Hey, Leske!" Nat hollered, waving, jogging down the steps that led to Dust Town. "Leske, you sodding rock-licker! What does a dwarf have to do to get your attention?"

Her old friend and once-partner had been lounging against a wall, idly flipping a dagger that he wasn't legally allowed between his hands, probably waiting on a job from the Carta. At her call his dagger disappeared into a loose tunic and he rocked forward on his feet, sticking his hands into his pockets, whistling quietly. "Is that Natia Brosca I see? The duster who left Orzammar a month ago promising to never return?" He grinned crookedly.

"Yeah, it's me. Stone-met, salroka!" They clasped forearms, each measuring the other. There was a new hardness to Leske that she didn't like; what had happened in Dust Town since she'd left? Someone had tried to cut off his brand, by the looks of it, and it had healed badly. "I gotta job for you. Know a bunch of strong dwarva who need work? The Wardens'll pay. And it's not killing darkspawn, don't worry."

"I know a few lads. And lasses." He gave a sharp whistle and a quick hand gesture in the language all dusters knew - _come, help, no danger_ \- and within moments a baker's dozen dwarva had gathered around them, strong-looking dusters who could handle themselves in a fight. Most of them Nat already knew from her time here, but there was a new woman, her brand still fresh on her face, the effects of suddenly being casteless still obviously felt. She glared at Nat as if to say she belonged there as much as any duster who'd been born in the dirt. "What's the job, Brosca?"

"The Warden compound near the entrance to the Deep Roads is not sufficient for my needs," she said. "I need to build it out. I've got thirty humans already helping, soldiers under my command, but nobody knows how to build like a duster."

There was general approval at this sentiment.

"Anyone who wants to make money today, come with me. My soldiers are already buying building supplies, and I'll need you to put everything together." She clapped Leske on the shoulder. "Nice to see you again, brother."

**A/N: ****We'll be staying in Thedas for about a year of story time before the search for Morrigan even begins. This is a slow-build story. When she arrives in Middle Earth, it will be about ninety years before the Quest for Erebor. These first few chapters are mostly prologue; future chapters will be much longer, except for a few interlude scenes between Thedas and Middle Earth. I have the whole story planned out and half of the chapters already have their skeletons written. Just have to add some meat!**

**I will be taking votes in the future on whether or not romance (beyond Brosca/Aeducan) will be included, and if so, who with. If romance does occur it will could change the planned ending. **

**Cheers, hope you enjoy, would love some feedback!**


	3. Interlude: The City of Stone

_The Grey Wardens hold a lonely vigil, enduring lives of hardship and sacrifice to protect the world from an evil that can never truly be conquered. Few would volunteer for this: the suffering, isolation, and promise of a violent death. But the path of a Warden is also one of valor, and those who give themselves to the cause are rewarded with the knowledge that they have become something more than they were._

_In Orzammar, 9:31 Dragon:_

King Harrowmont found himself in a protracted battle against Bhelen's rebellion that left him unable to gain the stability he needed. The deshyrs objected to many of his measures in the Assembly, and only his efforts to increase the dwarves' isolation from the surface met with any success. When Natia Brosca arrived with her escort of thirty Ferelden soldiers, it was only her word that the Fereldens would be under her direct command that let them into the city; she was warned that any more would not be allowed inside the gates, and would only be allowed to provide limited aid, in the form of equipment and medicine. The replacements would only be allowed to enter the City of Stone after their fellows left.

The Assembly posthumously declared Duran a Paragon after months of deliberation. He was buried in the earth beneath Orzammar next to his father-his Aeducan name restored. A new statue was erected in the Commons and a new house founded in his honor. After a law excluding the casteless from common areas of the city was passed, a rebellion saw the slums reduced practically to rubble, and the remaining casteless dwarves joined House Duran, especially after it came out that Warden-Constable Brosca had been in a relationship with the Hero of Ferelden. It became one of the largest in the city. Although outrage was widespread, the Assembly remained united behind King Harrowmont.

Brosca's influence grew as Harrowmont's waned. She took her sister and nephew under her wing after an assassination attempt had them flee from the palace, and the Legion of the Dead was integrated into the ranks of the new mixed-race army. She led forces to clear the Deep Roads surrounding Orzammar regularly, and when Wardens came for their Calling they were sent deeper than they had been in years. Within months, two of the small thaigs near Orzammar had been mostly reclaimed, and when Kal'Hirol was rediscovered, the large force led by House Helmi was able to completely clear the Deep Roads between the two great thaigs.

Halfway through the year, an expedition led by the scholar Darion Olmech goes into the Deep Roads to find Amgarrak Thaig and the long-lost secrets of the research on golem construction that took place there. They were never heard from again. Some months later, Jerrik Dace, the brother of one of the members of the expedition, petitioned Brosca for people to go with him to find the research party, funded by House Tethras. Brosca, not wanting to offend either House Dace or House Tethras—both of whom are now supporting House Duran, with her nephew Endrin Aeducan as their future King—agreed. However, she knew that if the Anvil of the Void was recreated, casteless would eventually be press-ganged into service as golems, and she didn't want that. She sabotaged the mission and they barely escaped with their lives back to Orzammar.

In time, King Harrowmont's health began to fail. Some claimed it was poison, while others said it was a flagging spirit. Either way, after a protracted illness, the king finally passed away. The wrangling in the Assembly for a successor began almost immediately. This time, they asked Brosca and the Wardens not to intervene: dwarven politics were not the playground of the Wardens, and the casteless had no place in the Assembly, whatever her place in the Warden hierarchy.

It was at this point that Brosca received word of Morrigan's whereabouts, and found out that she could have saved Duran from death.


	4. Forsaking Duty

**_Summerday: 1st of Bloomingtide (the equivalent of May Day on Earth)_**

_Once called "Andoralis" and dedicated to Andoral, the Old God of Unity, this holiday is universally celebrated as the beginning of summer, a time for joy and, commonly, marriage. Boys and girls ready to come of age don white tunics and gowns. They then join a grand procession that crosses the settlement to the local Chantry, where they are taught the responsibilities of adulthood. Summerday is a particularly holy occasion in Orlais. It is celebrated at the beginning of Molioris._

"Letters from the Surface, Warden." A parcel of letters wrapped in oilskin landed on Brosca's desk, tossed there gently by the door sentry, a mage who had fled the surface for a freer life below. "D'you have any for me to take back up, ser?"

"None at the moment." Brosca glanced up at the young elf briefly. "Keep the door shut, we don't want another day like last Friday."

"Yes, serah." The elf, still new to his post as a Warden-Recruit, saluted as crisply as any of the thirty Ferelden soldiers. Brosca laughed a little as he spun on his heel and marched stiffly away. Last Friday had been his first day officially on duty; mistakes had been made.

The letter from Vigil's Keep was full of dry reports of darkspawn fleeing the surface, mixed in with Neria's humourous accounts of the exploits of some of the new Wardens. One warning stood out: the Dalish elf Velanna might be trying to gain entrance to the Deep Roads via Orzammar, since she had been denied the opportunity to become a Warden.

_"She would not be a loyal Warden,"_ Neria wrote. _"Daylen was all set for having her Join, too, but I talked him out of it. All she wants is revenge for her sister, and this Order is not one conducive to that path."_

Nat jotted a quick note: _watch out for crazy vengeful elf hunting for sister._

There was also a letter from Soldier's Peak, asking for more of the strange lyrium she'd sent them to examine a few weeks before. It had been slowly turning red on one edge, as if the Taint had seeped into the very Stone. Apparently, Avernus had accidentally exploded it, burning off what little remained of his hair and almost tearing back open the Veil. He had included another few vials of the enhanced Joining potion which had extended his Calling for so long. _Good, I'm almost out_. None of them used the regular Joining potion anymore, not since discovering what Avernus had done. They had plenty of Archdemon blood to experiment with, after all. Alistair had once said that Wardens had thirty years until their Calling; that was a far cry from the natural dwarva lifespan of two hundred years.

She set the Joining potions into the locked cabinet under her desk and opened the next letter, from Alistair.

_My Dear Brosca:_

_Greetings from Denerim! The next batch of soldiers is on its way. As requested, there are more archers this time. A shipment of supplies from our Dalish friends should be arriving in Orzammar any day. Two more Wardens came through Denerim and paid their respects to me- I've referred them to Avernus for the refined Joining potion, since otherwise they would next be heading to Orzammar. I don't know if they'll follow my recommendation, so prepare for the arrival of the Dalish Wardens Mahariel and Tamlen. They've been stationed in Nevarra for the past ten years or so. _

_Please don't hurt me. Too badly. It's only a name. You should be honored, really! It's not every day a Princess is named. Eleanor Natia Theirin, born on Summerday! That's a good omen, if I've ever seen one. Eleanor after Elyssa's mother, and Natia after you. Congratulations, you're a godmother! It's quite exciting, being a father, though the way Elyssa's health has been I don't know if we'll have any more. We were lucky to get even one: we're both former Wardens, after all._

_Don't listen to Avernus. It's all nonsense. He's mad from living so long with the Call in his blood. Did I ever tell you, Duncan had started to hear it in the months before Ostagar? He was planning on making Gregor his successor as Warden-Commander and going on the Long Walk. _

_Avernus may or may not say anything. I'm not sure why I even told him, to be honest, except I wanted to know if it would have worked. Morrigan had a request to make of me before she vanished, and I refused her. I didn't know what it would mean for Duran, I swear it. I thought that Riordan would take the final blow, or else I would. _

_I could have had another child, but it wouldn't have been mine. Morrigan said that if she did this ritual, if I slept with her, she would conceive and when the Archdemon fell, his soul would go into the unborn child and not a Warden. I didn't believe her. Avernus has told me that it could have been true. _

_Forgive me, Natia._

_Hopefully still your friend,_

_Alistair Theirin_

It had the King's seal, in ink, next to Alistair's extravagant, loopy signature, the one he'd learned for his kingly duties. Natia rubbed her fingers over the fine parchment absently, her mind a whirl. What ritual? What had Morrigan wanted— and _why_ had she gone to _Alistair_, of all of them? They hated each other. Had it been because of Alistair's royal blood? There were rumours, vague rumours, that the Theirins had dragon blood.

A Tainted God, in the form of a baby. _No wonder Alistair said no_.

But she could have saved the Prince Aeducan. Duran could have still been alive, if only Morrigan hadn't gone to Alistair, if only she'd gone to Daylen—no, that wouldn't have worked, Daylen wouldn't have done it, his heart had belonged to Neria even before they'd become Wardens. And Darrian wasn't interested in women. Dwarves and humans couldn't procreate, either, which meant that Morrigan couldn't have gone to Duran (and _oh_ how _thankful_ Natia was for that, even though her heart squeezed at the thought of Duran _alive_—)

Alistair had really been the only choice. And he'd said no.

Natia dropped her head, interlacing her fingers in the back of her still-short hair, then drew them back up to tap her fingers against the corners of her mouth. "Duran," she said near-silently into her clasped hands. "Duran. You could have been alive still, you could have taken the throne back from Harrowmont—he would have given it to you, I know it, he's a good one for a deeplord—_we could be together still_—"

A knock on the door made her scrub fiercely at her eyes to clear them of tears. She cleared her throat, dislodging a funny lump, and called, "Enter!"

"Warden-Constable, there's another riot! Merchants' Quarter!" The speaker was a frantic dwarf who had been of the Smith caste before his Joining three months previous. "King Harrowmont and his guards are all holed up the Diamond Quarter—they're refusing to help!"

"Partha, my friend," she ordered. "Dust to dunkels, this will quiet down in a few hours. What are they wim-and-wamming about this time?"

The dwarf shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, Warden, don't have anything for you. I couldn't get close enough to find out without getting more than this—" he gestured to his eye, which was swollen near-shut with a rapidly spreading purple bruise.

"Well, blowing the dust off to find the silver: your eye's quite beauteous," Nat said wryly. "Go get yourself some bruise balm, Halmaed. I'll deal with this."

"Yes, serah!" He bowed and trotted away, leaving the door to her office open.

The riots were getting worse. This wasn't the first one in the Merchants' Quarter, but it was the first one that Harrowmont hadn't sent troops to put down. _By the Stone, I hate politics._ It must be a calculated plot on Harrowmont's part, not sending anyone, to gain some support with the deshyrs that he'd lost by allowing half the city to move to the uncovered Great Thaig, Kal'Hirol. Most of the deeplords had stayed in Orzammar, relying on their precious traditions to save them.

_Sometimes I think Bhelen should've been king. He wasn't a good man, but he was more progressive than Harrowmont, at least._ Nat sighed. _By the Stone—_why now?_ We were just about to go on another raid in the Deep Roads._ The darkspawn had been coming back in great numbers, leaving the surface behind for the surety of the dark, where they could search for the Old Gods who called them.

"Please, ancestors. Let the next Blight take another four hundred years." She slapped the desk and stood. She couldn't sit around thinking what-ifs all day; she had work to do.

* * *

In the days following the riots, Natia found herself pushed into the role of peacemaker within Orzammar. Harrowmont still had little Endrin named as his heir, and wanted to keep himself on the Wardens' good side; the opposition saw her as a hero and thought that she must surely be wise enough to solve any conflict. She had almost killed the Archdemon herself, after all, and many a dwarf had seen both her and the Paragon Duran clinging like deep crawlers to the dragon's back.

She found that she suddenly had very little time for herself, and pitied Alistair, who had to deal with this constantly as King. She had to delegate some of her duties to one of the other Wardens, a sturdy, sensible fellow named Jaelen Ortan who had been a surfacer before Joining. He reviewed their inventories, gave out pay packets, compiled the weekly reports to send to Vigil's Keep—and she answered questions from every duster in Orzammar who suddenly wanted to be her best friend.

A week passed in this manner before she was finally able to get some time to herself. The matter of Morrigan, which she had pushed from her mind the last few days, came back to the forefront of her mind, and she wrote a few letters. Those letters went out with the next reports to Vigil's Keep, to be sent across Ferelden: to Alistair, giving him her forgiveness but demanding answers; to Avernus, questioning him about the ritual that Morrigan could have used; to Neria and Daylen, asking them if they'd heard anything about Morrigan's whereabouts. If Alistair and Avernus didn't have the right answers, she'd go looking for the witch herself. She might do anyways.

Jaelen took on more of her duties as Warden-Constable, and when the next batch of mail came in she officially appointed him her successor. Rica and Endrin had settled into House Duran, with the best of their ranks teaching Endrin everything he'd need to know—the casteless taught him dirty fighting and the value of all life, the smiths taught him how to tell a good weapon from a bad one, the warriors (mostly Saelacs, who were still loyal to the Aeducan line, especially after Gorim had pledged himself to Endrin) taught him how to wield a sword and shield with dignity; tutors from the Shaperate came three times a week to teach him the noble arts. By the time Jaelen had been sworn in as the new Warden-Constable and Natia moved in with her sister, Endrin could read better than she could, and had a knack for getting in trouble with his quick fingers and then getting out with his silver tongue.

For all that, he was still a child, and enjoyed evenings spent snuggled up to his mother and aunt while they took turns telling stories: Rica of their early upbringing and the way Orzammar had been when Dust Town existed, Natia of her adventures with Duran fighting the Blight. He was very different from Duran and Bhelen, light-hearted and happy-go-lucky, and everyone who met him loved him.

"You'll be a good king," Natia murmured one evening, stroking his Aeducan-blond hair as he slept. "Remember where you come from, and you'll be a great one."

In the morning she was gone.

* * *

This letter was found under the pillow of Natia Brosca, former Warden-Constable of Orzammar, crumpled up and smoothed out many times.

_7 Solace_  
_Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine, Ferelden_

_My dear Natia,_

_I hope you know what you're doing. She wasn't easy to get along with at the best of times, and she abandoned us before the final battle. We even killed her mother. I know you're closer to Alistair than I, did he say something to get you on this idea? Nobody's seen her in months. Last I heard, she or someone who looks a lot like her was seen travelling through the Frostback Mountains. I presume she's in Orlais by now._

_Don't do anything stupid. I need a competent, Ferelden-friendly commander in Orzammar. This dwarf you've had sending your reports for the last month, he's all right but I don't know him like I know you. I don't know if he's honest like Daylen or a conniving trickster like you and Tabris. That's not meant as an insult, by the way, you know I love you both, but honesty is not in your blood._

_If you really mean to do this, find our swamp witch, your best bet is her mother's hut in the Korcari Wilds. Don't go near Orlais, they won't like that, they still think the Blight Wardens are loyal first to Ferelden before their Order. If there was a Blight they wouldn't mind so much, but now that the darkspawn are in the Deep Roads again, they won't look kindly upon you. You remember Riordan's warnings, surely. Empress Celene is looking for any excuse to invade. She won't be any friendlier to Orzammar than Ferelden is, you can be sure of that._

_Take someone with you. Maker, Natia, come by Vigil's Keep and I'll go with you myself, just to keep you out of trouble. There's a dwarf here, former Legion of the Dead, who would love to meet you. You're her hero. __Whatever you do, don't go alone. _

_In peace, vigilance. In war, victory. In death, sacrifice._

_Your Friend,  
__Neria Surana_


	5. Interlude: Down in the Deep

_Salroka (sal-RAH-cah): "Friend; one at my side." Most commonly used by the casteless._

The first time they found comfort in each other's arms, it wasn't on purpose, but Brosca was glad it happened anyway. They had spent days fighting darkspawn, looking for Paragon Branka, only to find that she'd let all her House turn into ghouls and Broodmothers. They all- even Oghren- had reeled from that revelation.

Two Wardens, a dwarf berserker, an apostate mage, and a free-willed golem made camp in the Deep Roads, near where the Anvil of the Void had been pitched into magma. Shale still stood where Caridin had, the crystals on her body glowing fiercely blue against the red light of the Dead Trenches, staring into the molten rock which had been her maker's death.

They hadn't really made camp. They spread their bedrolls close enough together that if something happened they would all wake at once, against one wall and hidden from the rest of the Deep Roads by the fallen golems. Oghren sat slumped against one, asleep, a flask held idly in one lax hand, the other bracing his axe against the ground. A little ways away Morrigan lay with her back to the rest of them, sleeping soundly. They had no fire, since the magma was both hot enough to keep them warm and bright enough to light their way. They had no need to cook food- anything they could catch down here was corrupted and could not be eaten, even by a Warden. They didn't really have a need to keep watch, for Shale didn't sleep and would see the darkspawn before they saw her.

But Nat Brosca lay awake.

She sat on top of her rumpled bedroll, hands clasped loosely over her knees, staring at the flickering shadows cast by the Trenches over the magma. This day she had come closer to death than ever before- and this day, she finally understood what exactly the Calling meant. Now she could hear it. The song, an ethereal sound in the back of her head, the call of Urthemiel, the Beautiful. In her mind's eye, she saw what she would become, years in the future, an engorged mass of writhing tentacles and heaving breasts, large enough to birth an army of genlocks.

"It won't happen."

Duran's quiet voice made her start. She glanced up at him; his grey-green eyes were steady and kind, despite the wound that had slashed open one eyebrow and the exhaustion that they all felt. Morrigan was not a skilled healer, so they had each had a sip from one of their last health potions, leaving their wounds all half-healed.

"Don't say that. You can't prevent it." She stared down at her knees, where her leathers had started to wear through. It wouldn't be long before she had to patch them, unless they got replacements made in Orzammar. She could see the uneven stitching of her last patch - she wasn't any sort of seamstress, but she could make do when she had to.

He sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. "I won't let that happen to you. If it comes down to it, we'll do our year in the Deep Roads together, and I'll make sure you get an end befitting the greatest of warriors."

It had been a long time since she'd been physically this close to anyone. He was being noble again, but this time it wasn't annoying, and she relaxed into him, turning so she leaned comfortably against his shoulder. Her legs slid down, her hands falling apart to toy with the tassels on her belt, left there for just that purpose.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Duran," she said, using his name for the first time, trying to joke but failing. "I might just take you up on that."

"It won't happen," he said again, and his voice was a rumble in his chest that she could feel. "I promise, Natia. That won't happen to you."

Shale still looked over the Trenches, facing away from them; Oghren wasn't about to wake up any time soon, and Morrigan probably wouldn't either. Nat turned her face up to find Duran still looking at her with those warm eyes, expression soft behind all the dirt, and kissed him. His beard was rough against hers, his braided moustache scratchy against her smooth upper lip. His lips were soft and his kiss sweet.

"What does this mean, exactly?" he murmured when they finally parted, fingers reaching up to touch her face, stroke down her short beard and the tiny braids she'd kept more neatly than the braids in her hair.

"Shut up and kiss me, salroka," she whispered, and down in the deep they knew each other.


	6. Witch Hunt

**And now we get down to it. Chapters will be lengthier, starting with this one! This chapter begins the Witch Hunt arc. A story timeline will be available on my profile once I'm finished writing this arc. Taking a few liberties with Ariane, as Brosca is not accompanied by a mabari, unlike the PC in ****_Witch Hunt_****. Please enjoy! I'd love some feedback!**

_**Some dialogue taken from the Dragon Age: Witch Hunt DLC. Elvhen taken from Dragon Age wiki and from fan-conlanger fenxshiral on tumblr**_

_Flemeth once told me that temptation lies in the forbidden. "Do not follow me," I said, and slipped into the shadows. _

_Some doors should never be re-opened._

_**8 August, 9:32 Dragon: Flemeth's hut, the Korcari Wilds**_

Flemeth's hut looked the same as it had been the last time she'd seen it, which was when they had gone there before the Landsmeet to kill Morrigan's mother, an old woman who could turn into a dragon. Nat didn't know what she'd expected; Tainted ruins, at the very least, since there had surely been darkspawn through here in the year past. The Wardens of Vigil's Keep had been determinedly chasing down every last one left on the surface for months, and many had been found in the Korcari Wilds. Surely they hadn't just left this little piece of the Wilds alone.

Neria flew far above as a swooptail, the only bird in the air that Nat could see. She circled once around the area and then swooped down to land as an elf next to the dwarf. Neither of them wore their Grey Warden armour; it would have been too conspicuous. Natia had found and fixed up an old set of leathers for herself, and Neria wore something similar, as neither of them wanted anyone to report a mage this far south.

"It's been so long," Neria said quietly. "Do you remember this place?"

"Of course." Nat settled and resettled Aodh and Veshialle on her back, licking her lips. "How could I forget?" A lonely, mad old woman, who'd tried to convince them to leave her alone, and then turned into a dragon and tried to kill them all.

"We'll find Morrigan, I promise." Neria squeezed the dwarf's shoulder before calling a bit of magic to the tips of her fingers. A tingle of electricity shot through Nat: the elf had just enchanted her axes.

_She's nervous too_, Nat realized, and somehow that made her feel even worse. It had been her idea to go after Morrigan in the first place. The elven mage had left her love, her duty, her entire life behind to accompany her on this quest.

"Come on," Neria said, and used a touch of Force magic to open the door.

Nat had never entered this hut before. It was homely, less extravagant than she'd expected from Morrigan's childhood home; the shelves had been stripped bare. Sunlight filtered in through the primitive roof, revealing dust everywhere—except _there_, there were _footprints_, there was someone else here.

"Neria," she said in the quietest voice she could, pulling her axes from her back. "There is someone else in here."

It appeared she hadn't spoken quietly enough. A long-haired Dalish woman stepped through an open doorway, holding two of those strange elven swords in front of her in a clearly aggressive stance. "Not another step. What are you doing here?"

"Not until you tell me what you're doing here." Nat sank into a battle-ready crouch, her heart thrumming; she hadn't had a good fight in ages.

"I believe I asked you first." The fierce Dalish elf's eyes flicked between Natia and Neria as the other elf slowly lifted her hands. They burst into flame, making the stranger take a quick step back. She bared her teeth, then sheathed her swords. "Ugh. Fine. I am Ariane, of the Dalish people. My keeper sent me to find Asha'bellanar-the Woman of Many Years."

"Flemeth is dead, if that's who you mean." Nat relaxed from her battle crouch but did not put her axes away; she had learned far too well how an enemy could injure or kill you if you weren't on your guard. The fire on Neria's hands flowed over to the hearth, where a few old logs had been stacked. They caught aflame easily and burned a deep red-orange.

"Many have tried to kill Asha'bellanar in the past," Ariane said. "Do not claim victory over her until a few centuries have passed with no sight of her. We thought she could help us find her daughter, Morrigan. The young witch has caused trouble for my clan. Has she earned your ire as well?"

"What happened is between Morrigan and me." Nat didn't let her inner grimace show on her face of stone. So the Dalish sought her as well. _What did you do, Morrigan?_

"Morrigan stole an ancient book my clan has guarded since the days of Arlathan. We were the only ones with such a piece of our history." Ariane turned towards the fire crackling in the hearth, her expression sorrowful. "Everything we once had, all legacy of our ancient magics were stripped from us, first by the Tevinter magisters, then by the wretched Circle. And Morrigan took what little was left."

"How do you know Morrigan stole it?" Despite herself, Natia relaxed, finally putting her axes up, as Ariane turned back to face them.

"One month ago, she visited our clan in the name of friendship, and took great interest in our history. She knew exactly what she was looking for. The keeper allowed her to see the book. Two nights later, it was gone." Ariane shook her head, scowling at herself.

"What's so special about this book?" Neria asked. "I grew up in the wretched Circle—I might know something."

"For almost two thousand years, the Dalish people have been wanderers, a shadow of what we once were. This book-as much of a mystery as it is to us-is one of the only clues on how to reclaim that past. My keeper, Solan, says it was a treatise on something the ancients called 'Eluvian.' The word is as old as the book itself, and its meaning has been lost. Save perhaps to Morrigan," the proud elf said.

"I..._may_ have heard of it," said Neria thoughtfully, folding her arms across her chest and tilting her head back into a ray of sunlight. Her hair gleamed, moon-pale, moon-bright.

"Help me, then," said Ariane, leaning forward intently. "We both want Morrigan, and we can aid each other. The Book of Eluvian was reclaimed for my clan by an elven mage, who stole it from the Circle of Magi before defecting. He said other similar treasures remain in the library, but they would never allow a Dalish to view them. Perhaps you will meet a different reception..."

"They have to let me in; I'm a Grey Warden." Nat turned to Neria. "They would welcome you as a Warden, if not as a mage who left the tower."

"You're right," sighed the mage. "But I do not wish to ever return there. You are no longer alone on your quest, Natia—this is where I must leave you."

"Farewell, my friend." She patted her friend's arm, unable to reach her shoulder. "If all goes well, I'll come by Vigil's Keep in less than a month."

"_Ma serannas[1]_, I look forward to working with you." Ariane bowed slightly. They walked out of the hut together, and Neria passed her hand over the hearth to dispel the flames within. "I must warn you, I have a familiar, a wolf who I befriended several seasons ago."

"Don't worry," said Nat, chuckling a little. "We're Wardens—we're, uh, used to strange things."

Neria leapt off the ground and shrank into swooptail form once more, white wings flashing pale gold in the sunlight. She circled once, twice, around the two of them before winging away north as Ariane watched, stunned. The shrieking cry she let loose as she flew startled a flock of much smaller birds out of trees nearby, and a dormouse caught Nat's eye as it scrambled for cover. The swooptail is a fishing-bird, but her magically augmented call sounded much like a hawk's scream.

"Well, that certainly beats my _da'banal'ras[2]_," the Dalish elf said, once she'd recovered her voice. She picked up a pack, which Nat had not noticed underneath a nearby bush, and whistled sharply. A mottled grey wolf with gleaming amber eyes appeared from the shadows, circling Nat warily.

"Don't worry, wolf, I don't bite as hard as you do." Nat offered her hand palm-up as she'd done for Elyssa Cousland's mabari many months before, and he came closer, snuffing at her when Ariane spoke to him in her own tongue.

"I call him Banal'ras: that is, Shadow," said the other woman, fingers combing through the wolf's thick ruff, kneeling to touch her forehead to the wolf's. "I have never been to Kinloch Hold, do you know the way?"

"I do indeed." Nat double-checked that the straps of her pack were tight and her axes secure. "The fastest way is to cut through the Korcari Wilds as the crow—or, perhaps, the swooptail—flies. If we don't stop in Redcliffe we should be there in about a week."

"_Ma nuvenin[3]_. How long can you run?" Ariane glanced at the cloudless sky as she stood. "It will rain before dark—I can taste it in the air."

"That would be a handy skill to have." Nat rocked back and forth on her heels, stretching her legs and loosening all her joints. "I can run all day, but I'm not fast: my legs are much shorter than yours."

The elf laughed, a birdlike sound, and made a soft sound that could have been a whistle. "Banal'ras will follow us and warn us of any danger. But then, you are a Grey Warden, _durgen'len[4]_. You will know if there are any darkspawn before he or I."

"Indeed."

They started off at a jog, a quick pace for Nat but an easy one for the Dalish warrior. There was no sound for quite some time except the dwarf's axes thumping against her pack, their even breathing, and their feet on the ground. They stopped for a short mid-afternoon meal when Nat's stomach reminded her that she and Neria hadn't stopped for lunch. They made quick work of some nug jerky and a few browning apples, then started walking.

As they walked, Ariane started singing. Her voice was mellow and sweet, and the song brought to mind the long struggle the Wardens had faced on their journey to fight the Fifth Blight.

_Melava inan enansal_

_ir su araval tu elvaral_

_u na emma abelas_

_in elgar sa vir mana_

_in tu setheneran din emma na_

_lath sulevin_

_lath araval ena_

_arla ven tu vir mahvir_

_melana 'nehn_

_enasal ir sa lethalin.[5]_

When she let her voice trail off and pointed out a good place to make camp for the night, Nat surfaced from the memories of many nights beneath the stars, solemn around a campfire made small by necessity; of days spent darting from cover to cover in the Deep Roads, always watching for darkspawn; of the long night they had spent in Redcliffe town, defeating wave after wave of undead. Tactfully, Ariane did not mention the glitter of tears on her cheeks.

* * *

_**15 August, 9:32 Dragon: Kinloch Hold, Lake Calenhad**_

They had no trouble approaching the Tower of Magi after successfully skirting Redcliffe—after the Incident that Nat never wanted spoken of again, she avoided Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan whenever possible. The fresh-faced templar at the dock didn't need any persuasion to take them across after she told him that she was there on urgent Warden business.

The dark-haired, dark-bearded templar that greeted them at the door was not one that Natia had met the last time she was there, but he had a pleasant enough demeanor. He used expansive gestures as he spoke. "Welcome to Ferelden's Circle of Magi. Please, keep your wolfhound under control. Some of the apprentices are easily startled." He glanced awkwardly between the dwarf and the elf. "I see you have a Dalish elf with you."

"Is that a problem?" Ariane demanded, drawing herself up, eyes flashing.

"Ariane, let me handle this—"

"Whatever reasons I may have to dislike this place and your people, I swear we are here only for research." The elf subsided at Nat's hand on her elbow.

"As you say." He shrugged, turning, and swept a hand out to reveal the entry hall as he led them inside. "The Circle is glad to have you as a guest. As you can see, things are much changed from when you were last here."

"I'm sorry, I don't remember you, ser." Clearly he'd remembered _her_, which was a bad sign for her memory. She was only thirty-two; she (would have, should have) had another two hundred years before age caught up to her. "Where's Greagoir?"

"My name is Hadley. I lead the templars in the Knight-Commander's absence—he's in Denerim, attending to some important business." The templar lifted a hand in thanks to Ser Telfas, who had brought them over and now shut the Tower door behind them.

"I need to go to the library—it's Warden business." Nat didn't feel at all guilty about playing the Warden card. Technically, it was: she had to know if the Archdemon could truly be killed without the Warden who did the deed going with.

"If you're looking for a book, you can start in the index section. As a Grey Warden, you and your guests are free to explore the first floor of the tower without an escort. Good day to you." He pointed them in the direction they wanted to go—not that it would have been hard to find. "You can reach the library by following the main hallway straight to its end, turning left, then continuing in that direction, through another doorway. Once inside the library, keep left, you'll find the index room easily. Please don't bother the apprentices in their dormitories to the right."

"I see why Keeper Solan did not want me to come here," said Ariane quietly as they walked toward the library, Banal'ras as silent as his namesake behind them. "It is all too tempting to overturn the tight order of their little world..."

"Don't do anything stupid, the Warden reputation is at stake here," warned the dwarf, resisting the urge to do something similar, herself. "We've only just repaired our relations with this Circle as it is."

"Do not worry, I am eager to find what we need and be on our way."

Natia Brosca, a brand, had never had cause to enter the Shaperate. She suspected it would look something like this: bookshelves everywhere you looked, stretching from floor to ceiling, each shelf filled with scrolls and books and pamphlets. Each section was clearly labelled in the Common Tongue, though most of the books were not titled in that language. The dwarva had spread their tongue to the surface with their trade, and gradually it had replaced most other languages in use, but many ancient tomes were written in Tevinter or other strange tongues she didn't recognize.

They kept to the left, and quickly found the index: four books on stands of their own, each already open to a page. Nat, unable to reach any of them properly, waved Ariane on to leaf through the pages. She picked up a pamphlet from the nearest shelf, figuring that it would be the easiest to understand, and opened it. The battered pages informed her on the dangerous and addictive properties of elfroot. Ironically, there was a fistful of dried elfroot stuffed in the front cover. "I think you mean lyrium," she said under her breath, staring with eyebrows raised at a particularly detailed diagram of an affected human body.

"This is probably what we're looking for," said Ariane. " _'A Catalog of Elven Relics'_, that's in the Mysterious Artifacts section."

"Where's that? And where in the section?" Brosca slid the pamphlet between _All About Weeds_ and _Cooking With Herbs_, tucking the elfroot into her belt-pouch. She didn't know how to make a health poultice from it, but she knew chewing elfroot, especially when dried, helped accelerate the natural healing process.

"Er... I think I saw that section near the middle. Somewhere around there. There's ladders, I'll look at the top shelves if you go through the bottom ones." Ariane scribbled something in her small journal, flipped the index's page, and scribbled something else before leading the way back into the library main.

Around the corner they went, avoiding a pair of young mages gossiping about a templar who had tried to take on a group of apostate mages by himself. Nat tried to avoid thinking about the too-detailed diagram she'd seen, unusually squeamish, when one of the mages said, "They say he was force fed so much lyrium he was bleeding from the eyes. His brain was liquefied in his skull."

"Can lyrium really do that?"

"It can kill you, yes, but..."

The rumble of the moving ladder's wheels as Ariane pulled it over to the right section blocked out their voices. "Here we are: Mysterious Artifacts. The title's written in the common tongue... I think."

"Oh boy," said Nat. "Library research is my favourite part of the day. I was so looking forward to this."

"Ha, ha." The ladder squealed a protest as Ariane forced its brake open.

Some of the books were pretty interesting, or they would have been if Nat could take the time to read them properly instead of just skimming through in case they had something relevant. _'Talismans of Ancient Tevinter'—I wonder if there's anything...? Nope, all Tevinter_. She snapped the book shut and put it back, carefully avoiding the thought that the well-educated Duran could probably have read it. _'Chasind Charms'...'Scale and Bone: Crafting the High Dragon'? That sounds like a good read! I'd bet anything Wade would love to get his hands on this. Stone, he could probably write another volume himself, with all the dragonscale we brought him._

"I've got it!" Ariane jumped down from the ladder, landing as soft as a cat. " _'A Catalog of Elven Relics'_. Oh, _len'alas lath'din[6]_."

That had sounded distinctly like a curse. Nat frowned. "Is this like the book you lost? Is this elvish?"

"Yes, but I can't read it...I do recognize this character, here, I think it makes up part of the word 'Eluvian'!" She brightened. "The script is different, but the bindings are in the same style. This is a library, isn't it? Perhaps another book could help us translate this."

"Did you happen to see anything about translations when you were looking through the index?"

"Perhaps..." She put the Catalog down on a nearby table and opened her journal. "Yes, I wrote it down, if we had time I would have asked to look at this book before we left. _'Translating Elven Languages'_, it's in the History section."

"That's handily titled," Nat remarked, shaking her head, and turned a corner to browse the shelves once more. It took them a bit longer to find the History section, and then they had to cajole the elderly mage who was using the nearest rolling ladder into letting them use it. Eventually Ariane had to promise to sing him a song from the Dalish, and she did so while Brosca looked through the History shelves. _'Koslun: Philosopher or Tyrant?' Qunari. Nope._

_Elgara vallas, da'len_

_Melava somniar_

_Mala tara aravas_

_Ara ma'desen melar_

_Iras ma ghilas, da'len_

_Ara ma'nedan ashir_

_Dirthara lothlenan'as_

_Bal emma mala dir_

_Tel'enfenim, da'len_

_Irassal ma ghilas_

_Ma garas mir renan_

_Ara ma'athlan vhenas_

_Ara ma'athlan vhenas[7]_

The elderly elven mage hugged Ariane when her voice dropped off, tears glinting in his eyes. "I remember little from my time before the Circle, but I believe at least my mother must have been Dalish, for I remember her singing that to me."

"It is called _Mi Da'len Somniar,_" said the younger elf. "I will write it down for you if you wish."

_Of Hammers and Witches: A History..._ Brosca opened it to the middle, briefly intrigued despite her own impatience, and found faded depictions of robed men trembling before figures bearing an ominous symbol of a black eye in a sunburst. Most of the words had faded, however, and she closed it with a shrug. _No importance_.

"That would be a kindness," the mage said. "It has been too long since I have heard such a sweet voice, young one."

"_Hahren[8]_, you do me kindness." She gave him the vellum upon which she had just written in her best common letters the Dalish song, as well as its translation, with the basic beat of the song transcribed as dots atop the high notes and below the low ones. He mouthed the words to himself as he walked away.

_Ah!_ "Ariane, I've found it." Nat hefted the rather large tome and thumped down the ladder. "You've got the _'Catalog'_?"

"I do." The elf opened it to the relevant chapter and laid it flat on the table. "Let's see that translating book?"

"Whoa! Who let a dog in here? And what are you doing? Be careful!" A young human mage with short, neatly combed hair and spotless robes approached them with dramatic outrage, bright eyes flaring. His voice was whiny and nasal.

"Be careful with what?" Nat checked over herself: she wasn't in danger of spilling any food or drink, and Banal'ras was lying very calmly under the table, dark and silent. Ariane didn't have any drink out either; she held the translating book open in one hand. They shared a brief, confused glance.

"You're bending the book too much! It'll crack the spine and cause the pages to fall out!" He put a hand to his forehead and shook his head. "Just thinking about it is making me dizzy."

"Look, we're in the middle of something important," said Ariane, going back to studying the translator.

"Are you familiar with this book?" Nat asked, gesturing to the _'Catalog'_ with one hand.

"I've used it, but I don't know it by heart." He came closer and looked at it. "Hmm...browsing the chapter on the Eluvians? No one's actually found one, you know."

At that, Ariane looked up sharply. "You know what 'Eluvian' is?"

"It's old elvish for 'seeing glass.' Mirror." The mage shrugged as if it should be obvious.

"How do you know that?" If he could read ancient elven, perhaps he could help them.

"Cross-referencing, educated guesses, process of elimination. Finally found the answer in a Tevinter scroll. 'Eluvian' isn't just any mirror, it's a special kind. When the Imperium sacked Arlathan, they took these mirrors and tried to unlock their power. But all they could use them for was communication, over long distances."

"Does that sound right to you, Ariane?"

"Solan thought Eluvian was a place..." She thought a moment, closing the translator and putting it gently on the table. "Hm. My people crossed paths with another Dalish clan not too long ago. Two of their young hunters encountered a strange mirror in some ruins, more than a decade ago. Both of them became deathly ill and had to join the Grey Wardens in order to be cured. The clan left Ferelden a while ago - last I heard, they were travelling north."

"What about the mirror?" Nat asked. _If it's Tainted but usable, I could get it myself._

"Shattered. Destroyed." Ariane shook her head sadly.

The mage gasped and stepped back in shock, his hands flying out. "Why?"

"It was...corrupted by the darkspawn, beyond hope of recovery. They did it to protect others."

"Even broken, it could be used to find the others," the mage muttered to himself. "No, don't get ahead of yourself, Finn, you have to be sure."

"What? What do you know?" Ariane focused on him with narrowed eyes. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table with such intensity that her knuckles turned white.

"This is so exciting! We have to get to the repository. Hadley has the key." The mage, apparently named Finn, turned and trotted off immediately. Nat and Ariane exchanged another glance, slid both books into a pack just in case they needed them again, and followed.

Ser Hadley stood right where they'd left him, keeping an eye on a few young apprentices playing some sort of game which involved skipping over some chalk drawings and chanting a simple rhyme. Finn, ahead of them, stopped and beamed at him.

"Hadley! Just the man I was looking for."

"Not looking very hard, were you? I'm always here." Hadley gave him a look.

Finn chuckled awkwardly. "Good one. So...I...eh...need to go into the repository."

"No." Hadley folded his arms across his chest.

"No? Why not? I'm not some drooling apprentice." Finn looked indignant at the idea that he might be considered incapable.

"It's because of me, isn't it?" Ariane said as she and Nat came up beside them,

"No," said Hadley, shrugging and spreading his hands. "The sentinels are behaving erratically, so the repository is locked for everyone's safety."

"Oh." Finn backed away, rubbing the back of his head. "Well then...er...sorry for bothering you."

"You're giving up, just like that?" Nat rolled her eyes at the mage.

"Well, look at the way he's staring at me."

She decided to ignore him, and turned back to Hadley. "What happened to them? Is there something I can do?"

"Unfortunately, we are still not sure yet. The repository isn't crucial to the daily functioning of the Circle, so we've left it until we can spare more men." The templar shrugged. "I would certainly like to see the situation resolved, but I would hate to put you in danger."

"Always something to be killed, and I'm the one to do it." She drew a throwing knife and flipped it between her fingers. Mostly she used her axes in combat, but she did enjoy throwing knives as well.

Hadley sighed. "Very well, it's your necks. But before you go, what's so important down there?"

"The statue. It knows things about—"

"It's Warden business," Nat cut the mage off, and gave him a flat look when he glanced at her in surprise.

"All right. Be careful, and keep the mess to a minimum." He handed Nat the key, sensibly not giving it to either the bristling Dalish warrior or the too-eager young mage.

"What's this statue?" Nat asked quietly as they went down the steps to the basement.

"It's in the repository. It knows things about Tevinter, and I have to ask it something." He frowned, adding under his breath, "I hope it's possible."

"You know that talking to inanimate objects is a sign of insanity?" Ariane asked dryly.

"Not when it talks back."

"You think this statue talks...to you?"

"It's complicated. It wasn't always a statue. You'll see."

"If you say so, Finn."

Nat chuckled to herself as she unlocked the door. _I've missed listening to banter_. The basement was much darker than the tower had been; the two glowing sets of armour gave off just enough light for them to see. The threesome headed inside, Banal'ras slipping in between them, eyes glimmering. As soon as they got within fifty feet of the glowing sentinels, the magical creations let out strangled cries and moved to attack, shimmering weapons appearing in their half-visible hands.

"Here we go!" Finn sent a blast of freezing air, just missing Nat as she darted in with axes held ready; the sentinels slowed when the ice hit them, but didn't stop. Nat ducked under the first sentinel's double-handed sword blow, spinning to slam her axes into the back of its knees. It dropped heavily and swung out again, only to collapse as Finn hit it with another blast of ice. Ariane engaged with the second sentinel, taking it down with a few quick jabs and slices of her elvish blades, but not before it managed to clip her in the side with its blade.

"There's a tear in the Veil," said Finn grimly. "I can close it, if you'll keep the Sentinels off me." And, indeed, the two corrupted sentinels were getting ponderously back to their feet, their wounds closing and armour repairing. Ariane swore, pressing a health poultice to her wound and binding it there with a light bandage. Nat charged in again, using the spikes on the backs of her axes to climb up one's back, and hung on by the Aodh as she hacked at its neck with the Veshialle.

She couldn't see the tear, as she was a dwarf and thus cut off from the Fade, but she saw the effects when Finn started chanting. A weft in the air, a sort of shimmery area that distorted the air around it, pulsed dangerously and a haunting wail drifted out, to be cut off abruptly. The mage staggered with the effort and clung to his staff to keep himself upright.

"We did it! And these sentinels are going back to normal." He produced a tiny blue vial and swallowed its contents with a relieved sigh. "We need to deal with the rest of the rips in the Veil, if we can."

"You know, Finn, you're not a bad fellow to have in a fight," Nat remarked, jumping down from her perch on the sentinel's back as it started walking back to its proper place. The other picked up its head carefully and placed it back on its shoulders before walking to the opposite end of the hall. Their weapons had vanished.

"Why, thank you!" Finn grinned at her.

_[1]ma serannas: my thanks_  
_[2]da'banal'ras: my little shadow. I constructed this word using the rules of the Dalish language. You are free to use it yourself if you wish._  
_[3]ma nuvenin: As you wish._  
_[4]durgen'len: the elvish term for "dwarf"; directly translated it is "children of stone"_  
_[5]Suledin/Endure, the song Ariane sings: The song is about enduring and emerging from sorrow, tied to the elves' loss of their ancient lands. It is adapted to personal struggles, as well. Taken from the Dragon Age wiki on the Elven language. A full translation is available there._  
_[6]len'alas lath'din: literally, "dirty child no one loves;" used as a curse_  
_[7]Mi Da'len Somniar, a Dalish lullaby. Taken from the Dragon Age wiki on the Elven language. A full translation is available there._  
_[8]Hahren: Elder. Used as a term of respect by the Dalish. _


	7. Interlude: The Fifth Blight

The following was taken off the desk of the Chamberlain of the Grey in Weisshaupt in 9:32 Dragon.

* * *

_Sir, it may seem incredible, but this record has been verified by first-hand reports from Orzammar and the Dalish clans we were able to make contact with. The account of the Ashes is not well-documented. The Chantry is sending their own people to investigate this claim. Their results will be acquired and sent to you post-haste._

**A Record of the Fifth Blight, as recorded by Neria Surana, Ferelden Warden**

In the year 9:30 Dragon, the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden found many promising recruits. Of these, seven are well-known: Alistair Theirin, who became King; Elyssa Cousland, who became Princess-Consort; Darrian Tabris, Neria Surana, and Natia Brosca; Daylen Amell, who became Commander of the Grey; and Duran Aeducan, who died in the act of killing the Archdemon and ending the Fifth Blight. He has been dubbed the Hero of Ferelden, and his own people made him a Paragon.

The battle at Ostagar is well-documented. The senior Wardens all fell with King Cailan and Warden-Commander Duncan. The King and Princess-Consort claim that the Witch of the Wilds saved them from the Tower of Ishal and carried them into the Korcari Wilds, but I am not sure of the veracity of that claim. They could have repressed the memory due to battle-shock. Whatever the case may be, they ended up at the hut of Flemeth, where they went to Lothering accompanied by Morrigan.

Few escaped the aftermath of the battle, but among them were Wardens Surana and Amell, who went back to the Tower of Magi in fear for their lives. Wardens Brosca, Aeducan, and Tabris ran the opposite way, deep into the Korcari Wilds, where they managed to heal their wounds and eventually make their way towards Lothering. There, they met up with Cousland, Alistair, and Morrigan.

Agents of Teyrn Loghain attacked them in the town's inn, and were defeated with the assistance of Leliana, who was at that time a Chantry sister. They drove off the bandits that had been harassing refugees and provided aid to the townspeople, including a Qunari vanguard who had been imprisoned for the crime of killing an entire family. He was freed to go with them and atone for his crimes by fighting darkspawn. He was not offered the Joining, as they felt a Qunari should not know the Wardens' secrets.

The group traveled to Redcliffe, where they assisted in defeating the undead who had been attacking the town at night. This undead horde was caused by Arl Eamon's son, an undisciplined mage, who Arlesse Isolde had tried to hide by hiring an apostate to teach him. This apostate poisoned Arl Eamon on Teyrn Loghain's orders, and the young mage made a deal with a desire demon to keep his father from dying. The Wardens then went to get aid from the Tower of Magi.

A blood mage insurrection took place in the Circle, almost resulting in a Rite of Annulment. The Wardens managed to put down all of the blood mages and demons that had risen up, and went back to Redcliffe with Senior Enchanter Wynne, Warden Amell, and Warden Surana. On their way, they were attacked by an Antivan Crow, Zevran Arainai, who was defeated and then defected from the Crows to help the Wardens. In Redcliffe the three mages successfully removed the demon from Arl Eamon's son. The apostate, a blood mage named Jowan, was executed by Warden Surana for his crimes.

At this point there were enough Wardens that they split into two parties. Wardens Theirin, Tabris, and Surana along with Arainai and the Qunari Sten went to find the Dalish in the Brecilian Forest, while the rest of them went to Denerim to find the Warden compound and a man named Genetivi, a Chantry scholar who had some lead for the Urn of Andraste's Ashes. Along the way they stopped in a town named Honnleath which had been mostly wiped out by the darkspawn and found a golem with free will named Shale.

_Note: While there are many accounts of a golem which talked, I am unsure at this time of the veracity of this claim._

After Denerim, the Wardens split further: Cousland and her mabari, Amell, Leliana, and Wynne went to the town called Haven, where they hoped to find out what happened to Brother Genitivi. Wardens Aeducan and Brosca went with Morrigan and Shale to rally the dwarves of Orzammar.

In the Brecilian Forest, Theirin's group wandered for three weeks before meeting a Dalish clan. They gained the promised help of the Dalish in return for destroying the werewolves who had been hunting them down. Instead, the Dalish Keeper died to cure the tribe of werewolves and the Wardens gained the help of the newly-cured men as well as the Dalish. This took another two weeks of wandering through the Brecilian Forest, and after this it took them three weeks to return to Redcliffe, by which time Cousland's group had returned.

_Note: These so-called "cured werewolves" have dubbed themselves "The Wolves" and have settled in the Warden compound Soldier's Keep, where Warden-Commander Sophia Dryden made her last stand during the reign of Ferelden's King Arland. It is believed that Warden-Commander Duncan led an expedition there to reclaim it for the Wardens' use some months before the battle of Ostagar, however at this time there is no confirmation of that from independent sources._

Cousland's group traveled quickly and made it to Haven within two weeks of leaving Denerim. There they found that a cult had sprung up around a High Dragon which the locals had heretically named Andraste. They destroyed the eggs they found in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, allegedly found the Urn of Sacred Ashes, and killed the High Dragon as well as all of the cultists. With a pinch of Ashes they returned to Redcliffe and cured Arl Eamon.

It took Aeducan's group three days to get to Orzammar from Denerim; they traveled with a merchant caravan hoping to get inside before the passes closed for winter. But when they arrived, they found the city closed, for King Endrin Aeducan had died and there were two contenders for the throne: Endrin's third son, Bhelen, and Lord Pyral Harrowmont, who claimed King Endrin named him heir on his deathbed. In order to resolve the issue, Aeducan followed a warrior named Oghren into the Deep Roads in search of the only living Paragon, Branka. They spent nearly three months in the Deep Roads searching for her and clearing out what few darkspawn remained as they went. They found her and the ruins of the Anvil of the Void in a long-overrun thaig. She was almost a ghoul, having spent three years in the Deep Roads, but still managed to forge a crown out of the magma before the Wardens killed her in an act of mercy. They returned to Orzammar and named Harrowmont king and Bhelen's son Endrin as Harrowmont's heir. Bhelen Aeducan, refusing to acknowledge Harrowmont as king, led a rebellion while the Deshyrs were still meeting; Duran Aeducan killed him and placed Branka's crown on Harrowmont's head himself.

They returned to Redcliffe a day after Theirin's group did, just in time to return to Denerim for the Landsmeet. At the Landsmeet, Mac Tir challenged the Wardens to single combat, and Theirin accepted. They fought to the death, but Theirin struck the mortal blow and declared himself King. The nobles at the Landsmeet accepted that and pledged to his banner.

The armies of elves, dwarves, and humans rallied in Redcliffe, where they assumed the Archdemon Urthemiel would make its appearance. Then the news came: the horde had emerged near Denerim, where it converged on a defenseless city full of refugees. The armies armed up and marched. By the time they eached Denerim, the city was half in shambles, and Urthemiel had risen, leading them in a full assault.

Senior Warden Riordan fell critically wounding Urthemiel, bringing It down so that It could be slain. Wardens Cousland, Brosca, Tabris, and Aeducan attacked when it fell to land on top of a noble's estate; Brosca jumped on the back of Its neck in preparation, but Aeducan struck first, cleaving through Its skull with a single blow. The Tainted God's soul took Warden Aeducan with It when It died, and thus he has been named the Hero of Ferelden for making that final sacrifice.

_Warden Surana's record ends here. Independent accounts have provided that Warden Amell has stepped up to take the role of Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, while Wardens Theirin and Cousland retired from active duty in order to become King and Princess-Consort respectively. Warden Brosca is now running the compound in Orzammar. Warden Tabris has disappeared with the Antivan Crow. The Chantry sister appears to have vanished as well. The golem which allegedly has free will is with Senior Enchanter Wynne; there have been accounts of them heading to Tevinter. The Qunari has left Thedas, heading for Par Vollen. Oghren is now a Warden-Recruit; it is my understanding that they have several possible recruits. _

_Included with this report was a large cache of Archdemon blood. It has been stored with the cache of Andoral's blood which, as you know, is almost depleted. Most of Urthemiel's blood has been stored in Soldier's Keep. Shall I send for the rest of it?_

* * *

Another note is crumpled below, in a different hand.

_L,_

_Keep a close eye on these fledgling Wardens._


	8. The Lights of Arlathan

_**[Most] dialogue taken from the Dragon Age: Witch Hunt DLC. Elvhen from fan conlanger fenxshiral on tumblr. A lot of dialogue in this chapter. I've started on Middle Earth and I'm excited to be finished with Thedas! Disclaimer: I have no idea if fish and/or deep stalkers get Tainted, or if the deep stalkers are even safe to eat when not Tainted.**_

_The excavations are going well. I think Shaper Warrek secretly hopes that the artifacts will lead him to the lost city of Arlathan, despite Tevinter records that insist on its complete obliteration. Even if he found the site of the city, there would be little remaining of any worth. As for the artifacts, they must have come to this area by trade. Cadash Thaig is old, built upon an ancient settlement called Cad'halash. Lots of junk can accumulate over that much time, even elven junk._

_-From Shaper Assistant Shalla's journal_

**15 August, 9:32 Dragon: Circle Repository, Kinloch Hold, Lake Calenhad**

"That was the last of them. The sentinels should stop trying to kill us now. Let's get back to the statue." Finn lowered his staff as the last of the corrupted sentinels straightened and went back its post. The ice on their weapons melted, and the arcane shield around Ariane, who had taken the brunt of the sentinels' attention, dissipated.

"That took far too long," muttered Ariane as they walked back through the repository, her wolf a shadow on her heels. "I did not want to spend the night here."

"Look at it this way: we'll have more time to gather equipment and supplies. Tranquil-made things are not to be taken lightly," said Nat. "I'm rather looking forward to a warm meal for once."

"The food here is quite good," agreed Finn. He raised his staff and concentrated; a slew of broken crates, their contents scattered around the room, repaired themselves and filled back up. "And I'll need time to pack everything I need, anyways! We couldn't possibly leave before noon tomorrow."

The dwarf and the Dalish exchanged looks and shook their heads. The young mage would have a rude awakening the next day when he found out he would have to carry all his own things.

They took their time finding the statue, as their battles had caused quite a bit of damage and Finn felt the need to repair as much as he could. Shattered pottery fused back together, torn paintings on canvas sewed themselves up, fallen lanterns levitated back to the walls and re-lit. Finally, they cleaned up the mess in the room that housed the statue. Finn set his staff leaning against the wall and approached with the two women close behind.

"I am the spirit of Eleni Zinovia, once consort and—"

"Advisor to Archon Valerius, blah, blah, fall of the house. Yes, we've been through that," Finn cut across the statue's ethereal voice with impatience. He twirled his hands in a hurry-up gesture.

"Wow...it really does talk," said Ariane.

"Finn...greetings." If a statue could be amused or exasperated, or both, this one was.

"We've conversed before, on the Imperium. It's hard to get answers out of it-requires parsing all the grandiose mumbo-jumbo," Finn said in an aside to Natia and Ariane. "We know where a broken Eluvian lies. Can it still be used to find the others?"

"Scry. The broken glass, dagger-sharp, will be your key."

"Broken glass? From the mirror, must be." The dwarf paused and looked at Finn in enquiry. "Finn, do you know how scrying works?"

"Er...In theory," he prevaricated. "I haven't done much of it."

"Oh, wonderful," grumbled Ariane.

"The Lights of Arlathan will illuminate the scryer's path," said the spirit of Eleni Zinovia. "The archons possessed them, but they were misused, befouled, and lost, like so much the Imperium touched. Some were saved, carried by fugitives from the elven city. Their sorrow awoke the Stone, and her children sheltered them. They found a sanctuary in the deep halls of Cad'halash, now known as Cadash. There the Lights of Arlathan lie, shielded from unworthy eyes."

"The deep halls of Cadash." Nat nodded slowly. "I've been there before, it could quite possibly be old enough to have witnessed the fall of Arlathan. My people have long Memories. We have to get there. Probably should stop by the Shaperate, too, see what they have about it."

"She mentioned the children of the Stone," said Ariane. "I had not realized the _durgen'len_[1] once aided my people when they fled."

"Neither did I." The dwarf shrugged. "Funny how things work, eh? Orzammar's a refuge for apostates of elves and humans alike, now."

"So you know of it. Convenient." Finn picked up his staff.

"I'm not a Surfacer, you know, for all I'm a Warden. And I searched the Deep Roads for nigh on three months, looking for the Living Paragon. We stopped in Cadash thaig on the way back from Bownammar. Lucky for you, we don't have to go that far in the Deep."

"Goodbye Finn. We will not speak again." The statue went quiet, and both Ariane and Finn flinched as if they'd felt something brush by them.

"What? What's that supposed to mean? Am I going to die?" Finn's voice went up a pitch and he backed away.

"Don't worry, _shem'len_[2], I'll protect you," Ariane grinned wickedly. He scowled at her and they made their way out of the basement.

"Now, mage. Tell us what's going on."

"The Eluvians are linked. All of them. If you have one, you can find the others, if they still exist." Finn scratched his head. "But the one you know of is broken, corrupted. So we need something else to...amplify the magic."

"I should've asked Daylen to come by," Nat muttered. "Obscure magic is his specialty."

"Daylen—Daylen Amell? Yeah, he'd be a great help! Why didn't you?" he asked, distracted.

"The Lights of Arlathan," Ariane reminded them.

"Yes, exactly!" Finn smiled brightly.

"How will this help us find Morrigan?" Nat asked. "Can you not find _her_ by scrying?"

"Unfortunately, no," said the mage. "I'd have to have something of her, like her hair or blood, and that would be blood magic—strictly forbidden, and anyways I wouldn't do it," he added, noticing a templar close enough to hear.

"Morrigan is interested in the Eluvians," the Dalish warrior pointed out. "We find them, we find her."

"Let me come with you; I can help. Please!" Finn begged. "I thought the mirrors were all destroyed. I can't pass up this chance at actually finding one."

"Your knowledge would be helpful, I guess." Nat glanced at the templar who passed them on his way towards the apprentice dormitories. "Do you have permission?"

"Yes, yes, I had permission to leave the tower to continue my research some time ago... but I never had the opportunity till now. I guess there's always a first time, huh? Ready to go when you are." Finn hesitated. "Er, wait, I need to get a few things."

"Come on—no time to waste. I have a good feeling about this," urged Ariane.

"We do need supplies, and I could do with a proper bed. I'd gotten used to those as a Warden," said Nat, remembering her quarters in Orzammar fondly. The most comfortable bed she'd ever slept in had been in Redcliffe, with Duran, the night before they realized the darkspawn horde had emerged near Denerim. That had been a most excellent night. The beds in the Orzammar Warden compound were not great, but they were much better than the stone she'd slept on for all of her childhood.

Hadley caught them before they left the following morning. "Thank you for dealing with the situation in the repository. The Circle owes you. Oh, and make sure Finn behaves himself out there."

Finn groaned. "You're like my mother. Stop it."

"Don't worry, Ser Hadley," Nat chuckled. "I'll keep him in line. I spent enough time with Wynne that I know how to treat unruly apprentices."

Finn grumbled. They ignored him.

**21 August, Orzammar Thaig, Frostback Mountains**

"So you've never... been outdoors? Till now?" Ariane asked, incredulous.

"I have been, I just don't care much for it. We had to do stretching exercises. I got sweaty. There was...dirt." Finn made a face at the mud-stained robes he currently wore. "During my apprenticeship, they thought getting fresh air and exercise at least once a week would do us good."

"Fresh air and sunlight is good for you," the Dalish elf pointed out.

"You know what fills fresh air in the summer? Mosquitoes. Hungry for sweet, untested mage flesh." He shuddered and slapped at the insects buzzing around his head.

"Well... when you put it that way-"

"Luckily, it didn't last long," Finn continued, not seeming to hear her. :One day, an apprentice made a break for it. Jumped off the dock and started swimming for the shore. The templars couldn't jump in after him, not with the armour on. Finally found him a week later. We stopped having to go out after that. That mage, Anders, never stopped trying to escape, though. Haven't heard anything from him since his last attempt."

"He's a Warden now," Nat said. "Haven't seen him in Orzammar, but I did meet him in Vigil's Keep when I went by a few weeks ago. He's very full of himself."

While they travelled, in order to stay out of trouble Natia wore regular leather armour, not her custom Warden leathers. Once Finn got used to taking a turn on watch and sleeping on the ground, they traveled quite quickly, reaching the Frostback Mountains in three days and Orzammar a few days after that. Summer was well under way by this point, and even in the Frostbacks it was warm enough they felt comfortable. At this point, Nat switched to her Warden leathers.

When they arrived in Orzammar, Natia told them to stay quiet. Harrowmont had closed Orzammar off from trade with the surface weeks ago, and outsiders were still viewed with suspicion—when they were allowed in at all. As Warden-Constable, Nat was allowed to go where she wished, and people with her were thought to be Wardens also: as long as Ariane and Finn didn't say anything, they wouldn't have any problems.

They stayed the night with Rica and Endrin, who had just started crawling. He was a plump little fellow, happy with everything, with his father's face, his mother's rich hair, and eyes just like Natia's; he had probably inherited them from Kalah's side of their family. He laughed a lot more than Natia remembered Rica doing as a small child.

In the morning they stocked up from the Warden compound. And then they entered the Deep Roads.

**28 August, Cadash Thaig, Deep Roads**

"It's hard to breathe with all this stone around me," said Finn. "I... I hope this is all in my head. Wait, why did we stop? Is this Cadash thaig?"

"Yes, I've been here before," said Natia. She looked around. They were in an area well-lit from above, a solidly intact bridge that linked the Deep Roads with Cadash Thaig. She sensed a large presence of darkspawn, but that didn't mean much considering how far from Orzammar they were. "This is a good place to set up camp tonight, once we've found what we're looking for, although we will have to stand watch again."

"Right," said the human. "So, I've, er, been going through my old notes."

"And?" Nat hunkered down with her pack and went through it for some food. The last of the salted meat from the surface she tossed to Banal'ras, who caught it easily. There wasn't much else left, besides hardtack, which was never palatable. They'd have to hope to find some mushrooms, or some untainted animals to hunt. The wolf would be a help there.

"And I came across this footnote. Apparently, the elves would magically conceal relics of great significance, thus shielding them from unworthy eyes. And given what the Tevinters did, I'd say they count as unworthy," he added.

"You don't say," Ariane said, casting the Warden a wry look.

"You're a helpful person to have around," Nat said, standing again and handing out shriveled little apples to her companions. "Make those last, there's no more."

"Yes, I know. But I have little else going for me." He chuckled modestly. "If the elves concealed the relics with magic, only the blood of their kin will reveal them. Ariane...we need your blood."

"Excuse me?" The elf whirled on him, half drawing her sword, eyes flashing.

"Just a few drops, that's it!" He winced and backed up a step.

"Is this blood magic?" Nat didn't have much against blood magic, as she was immune to its worse effects, but they weren't battling a Blight: not everything was acceptable.

"Um..." The mage rubbed the back of his head. "Blood doesn't power the spell, per se— it's just a component. It's... certainly a grey area, so let's just keep it between the three of us. Shall we?"

Banal'ras, finished with the meat, growled.

"Fine, four of us, then." He rolled his eyes, then focused on Ariane intently. "You share the same blood as the Arlathan elves, so you're the only one this enchantment might recognize."

"Fine," Ariane snapped through gritted teeth. "Just because hearing that gets me all tingly. Just a few drops."

"I'll be gentle," Finn assured her. He drew a small dagger which looked like it had no other purpose than drawing blood for rituals and flicked the tip across the back of her offered hand. She cried out sharply.

"That wasn't gentle," Nat observed.

"My spell will reveal vortices of magic," Finn said, waving off the elf's complaints. He muttered a few arcane words and the bloody blade shimmered. "Standing in them should allow us to see the energy being drawn to the relics, which will lead us to them. Once we reach the influence of the Lights of Arlathan, Ariane's blood will unveil them. But we have to be close."

They finished their apples, Finn managed a small healing spell to close the wound on Ariane's hand, and then crossed the bridge to a small island before another bridge. Nat drew her axes and cried a warning seconds before they were attacked by a group of shrieks: tall, lean darkspawn which leapt from stealth to attack them with ear-splitting cries and long, jagged blades attached to their forearms.

Forewarned by her ability to sense darkspawn, Natia blocked the first blows and struck back quickly, but Ariane was hit from behind and Finn barely escaped a decapitating blow. His cone of ice magic froze Natia in place as well as three of the shrieks, but the magic didn't affect her for very long and she efficiently killed two of the frozen shrieks while Banal'ras took down the third. Ariane recovered from the surprise attack slowly, but managed to turn and cut her attacker in half before it got in another slice, and then killed the final one when it attempted to stab down into her wolf.

"That's odd," said Nat. "You don't often find groups of sharlocks—shrieks—like this. Mainly hurlocks or genlocks in the Deep. Must be a last vestige from the Blight."

"Why? What's the difference?" Finn wanted to know. "There isn't much written about the darkspawn. Er, at least not in the Tower library."

"It's common knowledge among the Wardens." The dwarf shrugged. "Hurlocks are the equivalent of men, genlocks of dwarves, sharlocks of elves, and ogres of the Qunari people. Kossith, I think they're called. I won't tell you how they come to be." She saw the ghouls Branka had left of her House in her mind's eye, remembered the swollen mass of Broodmother that had almost killed them all, and shuddered. "That's something you do not want to know."

Ariane wiped the Tainted blood from her sword on one of the shriek's ragged tunic and sheathed it. "I certainly don't want to know. Let's go, I ache for the open air."

"Ariane...does your name mean anything in elven?" Finn asked as they walked across the next bridge.

"Blessed Creators! Why does everyone ask that of people from other cultures?" The Dalish scowled at him and fingered her sword.

Backtracking, Finn said quickly, "Er...I didn't mean—"

"What about you? Are you named for an honorable fish's appendage?" Nat interjected, not wanting to listen to yet another argument between them.

"Well, um, 'Florian Phineas Horatio Aldebrant Esquire' was a bit of a mouthful. And I...was tired of the other apprentices calling me 'Flora.' " He glanced at them uncomfortably as if he expected them to make fun of his name, too.

Banal'ras suddenly leapt in a whirl of dark fur and scrabbled madly for a moment before returning with a freshly killed deep stalker. He dropped it at Ariane's feet with a canine grin.

"Thank you so much, _da'banal'ras_," the elf said wryly.

"Dinner!" Nat cheered. "Thank goodness; I was hoping to have some fresh meat for once. Be careful, where there's one there's more, and they're nasty little buggers before you kill them."

"You... eat these things?" The mage poked the corpse with the butt of his staff, a queasy expression on his face.

"They're only_ tezpadam_[3]," the dwarf said reasonably, squatting to clean the corpse. Its guts spilled out in a smelly heap and she added its feet and head to the pile. It would serve as nice bait for the rest of the deep stalkers, who often cannibalized their own when they couldn't get any other food. "They don't get Tainted easily, just like fish. And they taste like chicken."

She speared the gutted carcass on her cooking-fork and held it out in front of her. "Some fire before it goes bad, please, mage."

Used to this from cooking their kills on the surface, Finn controlled his flame blast with two fingers with only a show of complaint, sending a jet of flames right beneath the deep stalker. Nat dipped it briefly in the fire to sear its scaly skin, then twirled it around until she felt it was cooked thoroughly.

"Let me just get this again," Ariane said as they waited for the Deep-creature to cook. "Your name is Florian... Phineas...?"

"Horatio Aldebrant. Esquire. Can't forget the 'Esquire.' Father insisted." The human sighed. "They adore me. I'm sure my name is a result of overwhelming love replacing good sense."

The wolf leapt up as more deep stalkers poured out of the shadows, drawn by the smell of guts and cooking _tezpadam._ Nat planted the cooking-fork in the ground so that the meat doesn't touch the Tainted earth and went to work with a will, a tempest of whirling ax-blades. Ariane, unused to being attacked by creatures so much smaller than herself, stabbed down with her sword but didn't kill more than three; Finn, not wanting to ruin the meat, aimed careful bolts of electricity.

It didn't take long to kill them all, and then Banal'ras gorged himself on the guts as Natia cleaned the corpses. Ariane held up the cleaned meat, Finn cooked it, and then they cut the cooked meat into strips and used an obscure spell to smoke the already cooked meat so it would last. Finally they packed it all away and crossed the bridge into the main thaig.

At the base of the bridge they saw a swirling silver-and-blue ball of light. Finn hastened towards it and circled it with staff raised, mumbling arcane words. "A magical vortex!" he exclaimed, lowering his staff. "We can use it to reveal the energy flowing towards the Lights of Arlathan!"

Ariane stepped into the light and seemed to freeze in place, as though time had slowed for her and not them.

"Do you see it? Can you follow the path?" the mage asked eagerly.

"Yes! This way," she said, voice distorted until she emerged, and they followed her deeper into the ruins of Cadash Thaig. A few corners later, they found another vortex, near which a group of darkspawn had camped out.

This group was more typical, with two hurlocks and five genlocks. Nat used her throwing daggers to take two of them out before they realized a Warden was close enough to kill them. Finn hurled a stone-fist at the alpha hurlock, knocking him down and out, and Ariane's Dalish bow made short work of the rest. Banal'ras leapt in and tore out the fallen alpha's throat before it could get back up.

"That's more like it," said Nat, quite satisfied, jerking her throwing knives free of the genlocks' throats with a burst of black blood. "Back to normal."

"We're seeing the magical energy being drawn to the Lights of Arlathan," Finn said, pointing at the vortex with his staff. Ariane stood inside for a moment, then led them to an empty niche.

"Over here," she called. "Finn, can you..?"

"Something's here," he muttered, and made a complicated gesture. A floating lantern appeared in a brilliant flash of magic. The Dalish woman approached it carefully and picked it up as if it were made of paper instead of magically reinforced glass and metal.

A ghostly elf in ancient armor yelled and ran in wielding a two-handed sword, silvery hair swirling around his head as he twisted and parried Natia's instinctive attack.

"_Ena'sal'in'abelas, din'dira!_[4,5]" Ariane cried out in elvish, a phrase Natia had not heard before. "_Ir falon'en!_[5]" The ancient guardian hesitated but shook his head and attacked again, responding with a fierce battle cry. Ariane fell back, not wanting to put the lantern down.

"Oh, guardians! That's what that word on the scroll meant!" Finn's staff passed through the ghostly guardian when he tried to physically attack him, though Natia's axes connected solidly. An Arcane Bolt made the guardian stumble, and another two in quick succession drove him to his knees, where Nat's Aodh finished him off. The guardian burst with a wail into a million shards of light, which dissipated before they hit the ground.

"You _knew_ there were guardians?" Ariane held the lantern close to her chest protectively when the mage went to look at it.

"The Lights of Arlathan are old lanterns! I didn't realize the statue was capable of being literal." He offered his pack to hold it. "Don't worry, it survived centuries, even_ millenia_ down here with darkspawn, it will survive my dirty clothes. Oh, yeah, the guardians, no I knew there was something but I couldn't translate that word. Now I have it! We'll probably encounter more of them."

There was a locked chest half-hidden under some rubble nearby. Nat went over and heaved it out as he spoke. She jimmied it open to find some crumbling relics, some ancient dwarven coinage which would be worth a pretty penny, and a faded note:

_Commander Regnar of House Cadash: _

_You were wise to send the relic you uncovered. The Shaperate has compared the carvings on it to various records, and believe them to be of elven origin, possibly thousands of years old. I would advise that you cease repair work on the warrior training ground immediately and continue investigation. A team will be dispatched from Kal Sharok as soon as possible._

_-Shaper Warrek_

They all examined it after Ariane placed the Lantern inside Finn's pack, nestled between his dirty clothes and the wrapped package of smoked _tezpadam_.

"The Cadash dwarves didn't even know they once had elves living here." Finn shook his head. "Wouldn't this be remarkable enough to record in the Memories?"

"I wouldn't know," said Nat. "The Shaperate usually record everything except the births of us dusters."

"I should study dwarven history when I return," he said absently, flipping over the note to study the back intently. The mark of Shaper Warrek, in the top middle, was visible when he lifted it to the light.

"We can stop in at the Shaperate in Orzammar if you like," she offered. "I'm sure they can recommend some books."

"Oh, could we? Excellent!" He folded the note carefully. "Only... Don't they record things in stone? That might be hard to read. I know how to read many old languages, but I haven't studied dwarven runes."

"No. The Shaperate spends a lot of their time transcribing old documents onto new paper so nothing is lost, although of course a lot is every year. Only the House records are in Stone." Nat shrugged. "I don't know if anything's written in runes, nowadays. Never been in the Shaperate myself."

"This way," called Ariane, already walking away through the thaig, her wolf on her heels as always. They followed her to a crossroads of sorts, with a massive dwarven sculpture in the middle, made of interlocking links. "Ooh, what's that?"

"Fascinating. A monument of some kind, possibly. Where's my notebook?" Finn patted himself down.

The dwarf drew her axes, spinning, as her senses alerted her to darkspawn. "Look out!"

The genlock rogues who had intended to surprise them instead got a faceful of Finn's powerful flame blast, Ariane's arrows, and Natia's axes. Within seconds the battle, such as it was, was over. When Natia had been in the Deep Roads with Duran, Morrigan, Oghren, and Shale, they had taken the time to go through all the darkspawn they killed looking for loot. Now, she didn't bother, knowing that contact with the darkspawn increased the risk of Taint for Ariane and Finn and not wanting to do it all herself.

Ariane let out a pleased cry when they walked between two buildings and emerged near another vortex. "Here we are!"

"Pay attention to where they're going," Finn urged.

"I know what to do by now, Finn," the elf said dryly, walking away again.

They followed her further into the thaig, through a darker area. "I have a good feeling about—" Finn cut himself off with a shriek of fright when a deep stalker launched itself at him from a nearby building. He froze it in mid-leap and it shattered when it hit the ground. More poured out of the squalid buildings, hissing madly at the death of their own; Banal'ras leapt in with an eager noise, Ariane slashing indiscriminately and Natia hacking at them. This was a larger pack of deep stalkers than had attacked them before, but it still took them only a couple of minutes to kill the last of them.

"I don't think we need this much meat," said Ariane, wiping her sword clean before sheathing it. "_Da'banal'ras, ava durdaurun mar diane._"[6]

The wolf went to work with a will and had soon gorged himself. Belly distended, he flopped down with a contented sigh.

"We've still got a few battles left to fight today, wolf," Nat said. "Don't get too comfortable."

"I'm fair hungry, myself," remarked Ariane. "Do we have any fruit left to go with the meat?"

"Don't know how you can be hungry after watching that bloody spectacle," muttered Finn, but looked through his pack obligingly. He came up with a withered apple core that he tossed aside and a wrapped package of deep stalker meat, which he shared out between the three of them. They sat on pieces of rubble as they ate. Finn took the time to fill their little cooking-pot with summoned ice, then melted it and used the water to rinse the worst of the blood and dirt out of his robes. After finishing her own portion, Natia wiped down her axes and carefully rubbed down the blades, getting rid of the blood before it started to rust. Dwarven metal did not rust easily, but it never paid to be careless. Ariane, waiting for her companions to finish, brushed out her long dark hair, her one vanity.

After a while, they walked on. They came across some torches burning on the side of a building.

"Torches... still burning after thousands of years. Magic? Special fuel? Perhaps the design of the sconces?" Finn walked closer to the subject of his scrutiny, squinting at the flames, which looked no different than the regular torch sconces used on the surface.

"'Fraid that's a dwarva secret, human, and you won't get it out of me." Nat and Ariane continued on.

It took a moment for Finn to realize he was being left behind. "Hey! Wait up!"

Around the corner from the ever-burning torches, Ariane stopped before a blank wall.

"Let's see..." Finn did something magical, and another Lantern appeared.

Ariane took it to place in her pack. "You know, these fit surprisingly easily. I was worried there wouldn't be room."

"In hindsight, we should have expected resistance like this," said Finn as another ancient guardian appeared. Again Ariane pleaded with the apparition in Elvish, and again they defeated him when he attacked them anyways. "That's two lanterns. We just need a couple more."

More darkspawn appeared. This time Brosca, paying attention to her Taint-sense, was able to set a trap for them using Finn's magic, Ariane's Dalish bow and Brosca's throwing knives. Most of them died quickly, but a Hurlock mage gave them a little trouble and injured Banal'ras, slowed because of his earlier gorging. One of their elfroot poultices stopped the bleeding, though the patch of new skin did not regrow his fur. With the wolf stopping every few steps to lick at his shiny new scar, they followed Ariane to the next magical vortex.

"It's like standing in a field of stars. And they're showing us the way!" the elf marveled. They started going again, Finn slower, looking around at the more intact dwarven carvings.

"Those carvings! The masonry! Look at the craftsmanship on—"

Ariane, annoyed, turned and looked back. "Finn!"

Finn had been meandering in a different direction; he turned hastily and ran to catch up. "Sorry...Oh! I bet there's one here!"

Another Light of Arlathan appeared, this one going in Natia's pack.

"Oh, what we could do if we hadn't lost this magic!" Ariane said, just as another ancient guardian appeared. "I wish we could question these ancients instead of killing them."

"Why is everything so complicated?" Finn whined as he paralyzed the apparition with electricity.

"Just to make _your_ life difficult, Finn," quipped Natia.

They crossed another bridge after the guardian dissipated.

"Over here, perhaps?" The human pointed to a raised platform which looked like a stage with nothing on it. Ariane stepped closer and Finn made his complicated gesture again: nothing appeared.

"That was disappointing." Ariane sighed and turned away.

They continued on and come across a Shaper's notes stuck on a post.

_We thought the Imperium found the elves hidden in Cad'halash, and destroyed them, but it doesn't add up. The thaig was destroyed with conventional dwarven weaponry, not magical forces. No supernatural means melted the stone and no immense forces pulverized the pillars._

_We uncovered shields (among other things) bearing the heraldry of old Kal Sharok houses. We destroyed Cad'halash-our own people. The only remaining conclusion is that Kal Sharok learned that they were sheltering elves and, knowing it would jeopardize their alliance with the Tevinter Imperium, took steps to cover it up._

_Thus far, there has been no evidence to contradict this theory, but it has split the Shaperate. Some wish to enter it into the Memories, while others demand that it lies forgotten in the dark halls of the Roads._

_-From the notes of Shaper Warrek_

"Kal Sharok destroyed Cad'halash. The dwarves slaughtered their own because they feared the Tevinter Imperium." Ariane shook her head wearily.

Natia grimaced. "Those were Kal Sharok dwarves: they are petty-dwarves, and of no consequence, for they are sly and prefer no contact with us in Orzammar, nor any on the surface. The Cadash dwarves of the day, indeed any still found in Orzammar, would gladly help. We have helped many mages avoid capture by templars, after all. Although," she paused, considering, "I can't really blame the Kal Sharok dwarves for becoming petty; we did cut them off during the First Blight, after all, leaving them for dead."

"Strange to think of dwarves giving shelter in this darkness to the elves who fled Arlathan," the Dalish warrior said.

"It's not _that_ bad down here," said the dwarf, feeling as though she had to defend her people's homeland.

"_I'm_ starting to get sick of the lack of sun," said Finn. "That's something I never thought I'd say, but it's true."

"See? Not that bad."

[1]durgen'len: the elvhen term for dwarves, lit. "Children of the Stone"  
[2]shem'len: the elvhen term for humans, usually derogatory, lit. "quickling"  
[3]tezpadam: dwarven for deep stalker[4]Ena'sal'in'abelas: Ancient arcane warriors that would protect the tombs where ancient elves slumbered in Uth'then'era. Dalish will often incorrectly shorten this to 'Enasalin.' Ariane, from a clan with more knowledge of Arlathan, would know the correct term.  
[5]din'dira, ele falon: do not attack, we are friends in elvhen  
[6]Da'banal'ras, ava durdaurun mar diane: loosely translated as "my little shadow, eat your fill." Bad grammar is mine, vocabulary comes from the wonderful fenxshiral.


	9. Hide-and-Seek

**_[Most] dialogue taken from the Dragon Age: Witch Hunt DLC. Elvhen taken from the Dragon Age wiki and from fan conlanger fenxshiral on tumblr. This was going to be the last chapter in the Witch Hunt arc, and last chapter in Thedas, but it got too long so I split it into two. I am taking liberties with some of the canon for Thedas dwarva._**

_Ena'sal'in'abelas n. Ancient arcane warriors that would protect the tombs where ancient elves slumbered in Uth'then'era. Dalish will often incorrectly shorten this to "Enasalin." Not to be confused with Ena'sal'in'amelan n. Arcane Warrior, Knight Enchanter, lit. One Who protects victory. Victory keeper. Sometimes shortened to Ena'sa'melan, or incorrectly shortened to Ena'sal'in._

_**28 August, 9:32 Dragon: Cadash Thaig, the Deep Roads**_

"_Nug_ shit!" Natia swore as a Blight-bronto roared at them. It shook its head, mad with disease, wildly and charged at them. As badly off as it was, they killed it easily, though the dwarf got drenched in black blood when Ariane decapitated the beast. "Fuckin' shit, I've got to burn this, and it was a decent set of leathers, too. Stay away from me until I'm clean, you don't want to catch this."

"Understood." Ariane held out her sword to Finn so he could burn the black blood off of it. "We shouldn't separate, though. Go in one of those buildings. You still have your Warden leathers, yes?"

"I do." The dwarf looked the crumbling buildings over. "Most of these ruins are structurally unsound. I'm no Smith, but I think this one's all right enough that it won't collapse on my head."

Finn examined the carvings nearby after he scorched the sword clean. "Interesting. This carving over here is an ancient dwarven dialect. If you find more writing like this, I could probably translate it."

"I'll keep an eye out," said Ariane.

She walked inside the small building, half-hopping to get her boots off on the way there. The necklace Duran had given her was a total loss, unfortunately, as were the nondescript leathers that she had been wearing in lieu of her Warden armour. The boots could potentially be saved, if she scrubbed them well enough. Natia had been wearing these boots since taking them off of Jarvia when they'd taken down most of the Carta in Orzammar. They had two enchantments on them to boost the wearer's speed and stamina, and the soft leather had been worked in such a way to ensure the wearer's comfort while still allowing two hidden sheaths for boot-knives.

_We're lucky we didn't get any Tainted blood on us before now_. She shucked her leathers, washed herself as best she could with the little water remaining in her waterskin, and pulled on the azure-and-argent Warden armour. It wasn't nearly as comfortable, but it hadn't been made specifically for her like the other set had been. Her axes wouldn't take long to clean when they made camp for the night.

"Bronto meat is something I've tried before! It's quite good, once you've gotten over the stringiness." Finn poked experimentally at the bronto's corpse with the butt of his staff as Nat emerged from the ancient building. "A stew would be nice...We could put the hardest hardtack in it. Then we wouldn't break any teeth."

"I agree, but we can't have any of this one," said Natia, coming back out just in time to hear his words. "It's Tainted. Hardly anything down here isn't; the deep stalkers are rarities. If there's any _tezpadam_ left, we can make a stew out of that, I suppose."

"That's too bad. I've never had any bronto," said Ariane. "Is it much like venison? Or is it more like bear?"

"I wouldn't know, never had either." The dwarf chuckled. "Burn that, Finn, the less Taint the better."

"It's sort of like ham, really," said the mage as he cast a fire rune on the ground with the bronto in the center. A tossed rock bounced off the bronto to land near the edge of the rune and it exploded, burning the Tainted corpse to a crisp; by the time the flames died down, there was nothing left but ash.

"I think you might have attracted some attention with that," murmured Ariane, drawing her sword. Natia pulled her axes free and tensed to leap.

"Darkspawn—not a lot, though. I think that's probably the last of them in this area." She gestured with one axe. "Finn, you go over there, climb up on the building if you can. They don't ever look up. There's no ogres, so you'll be safe unless they have an archer. Ariane, they know I'm here, so leave your wolf with me. I'll try to keep their attention on me and Banal'ras if you'll circle around behind them. Finn, when they're all attacking me, hit them with a loud spell; that'll be your signal to attack, Ariane."

They played their parts well; as Ariane disappeared around the back of one of the crumbling buildings and Finn scrambled on top of the sturdy one, Natia slammed her axes together and yelled a challenge. Three hurlock warriors, a genlock archer, and a dagger-wielding rogue ran towards her. She ducked the first's sword as an arrow scored a line along her shoulder, whirling in a tempest of blades to slice open its gut as Ariane's Banal'ras leapt on the rogue and tore its throat out. The second hurlock caught her on the same shoulder as the arrow with a shield bash, sending her off-balance; Finn's explosive blast made them back off her temporarily, and the archer switched targets to try and take him out. Ariane appeared like a vengeful elven warrior from Arlathan, killing the archer and the third hurlock before they knew she was there. Finn froze the remaining hurlock and Natia recovered enough to shatter it with a well-placed blow.

"Well done, all." Natia sat down with a thump. "I think I've got to rest a bit." Her head was still spinning from the shield bash she'd taken. The entire skirmish hadn't taken more than a few seconds, and her sense of darkspawn had receded to a safe distance: probably further in the Deep Roads, where they didn't plan to go. There was a Warden just a bit farther, _that_ way, possibly two of them, gone to their Calling.

"That looks pretty painful," said Ariane, coming up to sit next to her. She pulled the torn armor away from the dwarf's shoulder, revealing a nasty bruise and a most likely poisoned arrow wound. "Hey, Finn, do you have any antivenin?"

"Yes, one moment," said Finn, tossing back a small blue vial. "Ah, that's better. Here you go, Ariane. Poisoned arrows? That must be terribly painful. I'm glad I didn't get shot myself. The darkspawn don't seem to be able to aim very well, I didn't they were smart enough to use ranged weapons at all."

"This will hurt," Ariane warned the dwarf, giving their human a Look to make him shut up.

"Just get on with it, I've had worse. I had to sleep for more than a day after battling the Archdemon." Natia attempted to shrug but grimaced. The head-spinning had gotten worse, and now she felt dizzy and light-headed. _The poison at work. Doesn't feel like deathroot...spider venom, perhaps?_

Ariane made Natia drink the wide-spectrum antivenin while she cleaned out the shoulder wound and spread a health poultice on it. As she'd promised, it burned like fire, making the dwarf hiss in a sharp breath, but then it faded, and new skin grew in pink and shiny. She would always have a scar, a raised white line, but then she had many scars.

"We should camp for the night," she said, or tried to. The words came out a little slurred, as if she'd been drinking lichen ale. "I don't trust myself in another fight. Stew sounds good, Finn, thanks for volunteering to cook..." She made an effort to pull out her axes and a relatively clean bit of cloth to wipe them down.

"Let me do that," Finn said, pulling them from her unprotesting grip, scouring the blades with the fire he set up to cook with. The mage muttered disparagingly to himself about stubborn dwarves as he pulled out their fold-up cooking pot. It wasn't long before they had some deepstalker jerky and hardtack bubbling in the pot with water gained magically. He had modified an ice conjuration to just pull water from the air, not freeze it. It wouldn't have any applications in battle, but not all magic did.

"Thanks, Finn," she said, taking her axes back when he'd finished with them. She slid them back into place before leaning back and closing her eyes.

"What we have now won't be enough," Finn said, pulling out one of the Lights of Arlathan to examine it closely. "I think one more should do it."

"We're so close to the next one, I can feel it," said Ariane, prowling the perimeter of their camp as the stew cooked. Her wolf circled behind her, sniffing intently at a spot on the ground that had no immediate significance to any of them. After a moment, he raised his leg and marked it as his territory, like Elyssa's mabari had often done. "I know it. We're so close."

"You say you can _feel_ it? How does it feel? Is it a tingle? Are your toes numb? What about your elbows?" the human asked with interest, eyes intent on hers and fingers shaping magical signs.

Nat, already half-asleep, sighed and opened her eyes. She felt old, though at 32 she was physically younger than their equivalent ages. "If you think we're _that_ close, Ariane, I suppose we can find it and then come back to eat our stew afterwards."

The Dalish warrior had the decency to look a bit sheepish, but no less eager. "Let's go."

The dwarven rogue heaved herself to her feet and braced herself against the rock as she fumbled for a stamina restorative. She didn't need a large one, just a sip, just enough to clear her mind and keep her upright. They wouldn't really need her for battling one of those ancient elven guardians...what had Ariane called them? _Ena'sal'in'abelas?_[1] She wondered where the elf had encountered one before. Did the Dalish regularly disturb ancient elven places?

Beyond the next rise the darkspawn had been lingering around a crude campsite. Ariane touched the ashes where the fire had been briefly. "_Gen'iseth_,"[2] she said. "It's still warm."

Another magical vortex swirled just beyond. She stepped inside. The old magic swirled around her, settling into her like a second skin, and she walked unerringly to a blank wall. "Here we are!"

"This is like playing hide-and-seek, isn't it?" Finn picked up the lantern that appeared and nestled it in his pack. A pair of the _ena'sal'in'abelas_ appeared, yelling ghostly battle cries in ancient Elvish.

"Here it comes!" Natia braced herself. The familiar rush of battle coursed through her veins, speeding her heart and clearing the sleep from her limbs. This time one of the guardians fought with magic as well as sword, difficult to defeat even if she had been at her best. Finn's magic, powerful and destructive as it was, was not terribly helpful in such close quarters; the restorative magic that Wynne had studied would have been a great help.

Eventually, however, they destroyed the apparitions, and Natia had just enough time to gulp down a bowl of stew and fall in her bedroll before exhaustion took her.

"I always thought dwarves must be dull without magic, but this place is amazing," she heard Finn say in the distance. "We have four Lights of Arlathan now—I hope that's enough. We still need the shard of the Eluvian, though."

"We'll head to the elven ruins next," Ariane murmured, from even farther away. "It's north of Gwaren, but still further west." Natia heard her start singing, and faded into nothingness in the middle of the song.

_"Ga haur te'lea  
__Es'an ehn shia ga te'laim  
__Shan ea soun tel'banafelasa  
__Bre'gen'adahl ea tel'dera i'eireth  
__Ise juthen o genise..." _[3]

_**2 Harvestmere, 9:32 Dragon: Brecilian Forest, southeast Ferelden**_

By the beginning of the month of Kingsway, they'd gotten back to Orzammar. They stayed in the city of stone for three days to rest and restock. Natia remained low and out of the way of her successor to the post of Warden-Constable, who tried to call on her twice for advice. Both times, she had her sister say that she was ill and could not be disturbed. The Warden-Constable, predictably, came to the conclusion that her Calling had to be near. She didn't dissuade that assumption.

It took the greater part of the month of Kingsway to travel from Orzammar across the Bannorn to the Brecilian Forest, and another full week in the forest before they found the right trail. On the second day of Harvestmere, they finally found the elven ruins. They had followed Ariane deep into the Brecilian Forest. She had led them easily, following trail signs that Nat couldn't see, crossing the Brecilian Passage north of Gwaren not long before switching to a much older goats'-track trail. They found a blackened, burnt area that they searched for several days before finally coming across what had to be the entrance.

Banal'ras appeared just before they approached the entrance and dropped a bunch of torn flowers on Ariane's foot. She crouched and ruffled the wolf's fur as she picked up the sad-looking blossoms. "Look, Finn, he fetched me a flower! Oh, how thoughtful. It's very pretty. Slobbery, but pretty." The wolf flopped onto his back and wiggled around as she rubbed his belly.

"You should just tell him to fetch a Morrigan. It would save us a lot of trouble," said Finn.

"These are the ruins. The broken Eluvian should be around here." Ariane straightened from where she had been inspecting the carvings on the entrance. "It says _an'dinathe varamal_...'danger, keep out' but we're all rule-breakers here." [4]

"Oh, I'm so excited!" Finn shivered and glanced around, eyes wide and bright.

"Years ago, when the Sabrae clan first came upon it, it was Tainted by the Eluvian," said Ariane as they entered the mostly buried ruins. "All the elves that came in here got sick and died until the Keeper of that clan burned the Taint from everything. If not for that, we'd be getting sick, ourselves."

"Look at this place—these are elven statues, but the architecture is clearly human in design. Humans and elves living together!" Finn whipped out his notebook and began scribbling notes. Natia had improved her literacy since accepting the paperwork-burdened post in Orzammar, but she still had to read slowly and had trouble understanding anything less than perfect script. Finn's messy handwriting was too much for her. She suspected he was using his own shorthand.

Wind whistled through the ruins, empty of all life. Finn and Ariane both lingered over ancient statues and crumbling relics, exclaiming over the significance of every little thing, but eventually they found their way into a chamber with a giant mirror-frame standing on a platform in the center of the room. The edges of the frame were lined with shards of mirror, and the ground around it was covered in tiny pieces. Behind it lay a back exit.

"I can't believe this is one of the Eluvians. It's magnificent...and broken. Mostly broken." The human picked up a larger shard, shaking his head regretfully at the waste, then continued: "With this shard, and the Lights of Arlathan, we should be able to scry for an unbroken mirror. This looks like a suitable place to do the ritual. We can start whenever you're ready."

Natia, not caring about the historical significance, nodded. "Let's do it."

"Prepare yourself. The ritual may attract... unwanted attention. You'll have to protect me." He placed the four Lights of Arlathan in a circle around himself, then started chanting and waving his hands around, holding his staff in one hand. Light rose from the Lights and swirled around him. Shards of the eluvian rose and drifted around him like dust motes in a beam of sunlight, flashing brilliantly as they reflected the light in every direction. They cast tiny rainbows over the walls and floor. "Here...we...go!"

Shades and a Rage Demon grew out of the floor and started attacking. Natia, Ariane, and Banal'ras held them off while Finn kept casting. As beings of the Fade, they couldn't affect Natia as they did Ariane, though her enchanted axes dealt them heavy damage. As Finn's chanting increased in pace and volume, more shades appeared. Finally he went quiet and the remaining shades faded away.

Finn swayed on his feet, clutching his staff to keep upright. "Phew! Am I bleeding? Oh look, a rip in my robe." His grip loosened on his staff, and it clattered to the ground as he collapsed.

"What happened to, 'Ariane, give us your blood. Who cares if it hurts?'" Ariane teased, not nearly as mocking as she had been the first day they'd met him. "_Vyn esaya gera assan i'mar'av'ingala_." [5]

"It's...my blood. That's different," the mage protested, lying spread-eagle, eyes closed.

"Don't be such a baby," said Nat impatiently, on edge from being near so much magic. It was a little-known fact about dwarves that they could feel magic being used, felt it as if it were in the air they breathed, though it did not affect them and they couldn't enter the Fade. "Did the ritual work?"

"Oh, er...sorry." He got to his feet, stumbling drunkenly and almost falling, and tossed back a vial of lyrium to steady himself. "I've pinpointed another Eluvian. It's in the Dragonbone Wastes. The Tevinters probably moved it there to see if the ancient dragon bones could enhance the Eluvian's power."

"Warden-Commander Amell's been to the Dragonbone Wastes. He mentioned no mirror." Natia tried to think back to that report. It had only been a few months ago, and it hadn't been a formal report. Maybe he'd seen it and didn't think it worth mentioning. He'd told her of the Mother and the Architect, both of whom the Wardens of Vigil's Keep had killed, but not every detail. Dragon bones? She knew the dragon armour that Wade had created for the Bloodhound Cousland had given her a great resistance to magic and flame alike, but to enhance power? The Tevinters had worshipped dragons as gods, once, Ages ago. Perhaps they thought the elves of Arlathan had done likewise. Perhaps they hadn't realized the Eluvian was an Arlathan artifact and, in their arrogance, thought it one of their own.

"It might be hidden... or only appear to those who know its location." Finn shrugged. He gestured to the Lights of Arlathan, which still lay on the floor where he'd left them. "What should we do with these? I'd like to take them back to the Circle, but—"

"Definitely not," Ariane said, brooking no argument. "My clan will take good care of them, and at the next _Arlathvhen_[6] the rest of the Dalish will be able to see them."

"I have no reason to argue. What's that?" Natia wanted to know.

"_Arlathvhen?_ It's a Dalish thing. We all get together once every ten years or so." Ariane picked up the ancient lanterns and placed them gently back in her pack. There must have been some sort of ancient Arlathan enchantment on them, for the pack didn't appear to be full when she closed it. She looked to the other two. "Now what?"

"We examine the mirror. It might give us clues to what Morrigan's doing. If she's looking for the Eluvians as well, she might even be there. Shall we?" Fully recovered now, Finn motioned towards the entrance of the ruins.

Nat nodded. "We've come this far. Let's not waste any time. Morrigan has enough of a head start on us."

* * *

*These are mostly examples of my own poor conlang skills, taken from different words in fenxshiral's Project Elvhen Lexicon. You can find it on Ao3.*

_[1]Ena'sal'in'abelas: __Ancient arcane warriors that would protect the tombs where ancient elves slumbered in Uth'then'era._  
_[2]gen'iseth: ash from a fire that is still warm. _  
_[3]The Riddle of Strider, from Tolkein's LoTR, translated into Elvhen by fenxshiral_  
_[4]an'dinathe varamal: danger, keep away; lit. place of the dead, far away keeping_  
_[5]Vyn esaya gera assan i'mar'av'ingala: You are a moron. Lit. You would try to catch an arrow with your teeth._  
_[6]Arlathvhen: lit. "People Home." The meeting of the Dalish clans' keepers, which takes place every ten years and last two days._


	10. Drake's Fall

**_[Most] dialogue taken from the Dragon Age: Witch Hunt DLC. Elvhen taken from fan conlanger fenxshiral on tumblr and Ao3. This is the last chapter in Thedas and the last in the Witch Hunt arc. I am taking liberties with some of the canon for Thedas dwarva._**

_On the fourth day, Dirthamen heard them. He whispered into the mountains and the fallen trees of the forest gathered, shaping an immense and agile spider-like beast. It was the varterral. With lightning speed, vicious strikes, and venomous spit, it drove back the serpent. From then on, it was the guardian of the city and its people.  
__\- From The Tale of the Varterral, as told by Gisharel, Keeper of the Ralaferin clan of Dalish elves_

_**22 Harvestmere, 9:32 Dragon: Dragonbone Wastes, northern Ferelden**_

_Far to the south of Thedas, nestled between high, forboding mountains, is a place where they say dragons go to die. There, in that harsh and wild land, a dragon at the end of her days would lie down and allow the bitter cold to take her. The Tevinter Imperium believed the tales, and imagined that the bones of these great and ancient beasts must be suffused with power—power they could take for themselves. And thus they sought out the place that their legends spoke of. When they found it, and saw the bones piled upon ancient bones, they named it Drake's Fall.[1]_

Going up from the southeast, they stopped in at Denerim so Natia could catch up with "The Bloodhound" Elyssa Cousland-Theirin and King Alistair; Ariane stayed outside the city with Banal'ras, while Finn explored the market district, spending some of the money they'd found in Cadash Thaig. After a day spent with her formerly fellow Wardens, Natia sent off a letter to Antiva, hoping it would somehow reach Darrian and Zevran. They spent another day at Vigil's Keep, where Finn closeted himself with Daylen and the Warden mage named Anders to talk magic and Natia reminisced with Sigrun, the former Legionnaire.

The other dwarf had once been casteless, like herself, but had lost that status the moment she committed herself to an honorable death with the Legion of the Dead. She was approaching middle-age at 80, quite old for a Legionnaire but relatively young compared to most dwarven Wardens. Duran Aeducan himself had been 90 the day he'd gotten his first command, and not quite 91 when he'd died. Most dwarves reached official adulthood at the age of 35, the equivalent of 20 in human years; dusters, however, were forced to mature earlier than other dwarves. Natia had been 15 when her father had left for the Surface and Kalah started drinking. Within a year they'd lost almost everything, and only by sweeping the streets and running messages for the Iron District, home of the Smith Caste, was she able to pay for their rent. By the time she was 28 she had started working for Beraht, and eventually he had grown fond enough of her that he'd agreed to sponsor her sister as a noble hunter. If she hadn't been infertile herself, he would have sponsored her as well, though she wasn't nearly as feminine and beautiful as Rica. Her beard had always been a bit fuller than a female's should be, scruffy instead of neat, her hair thick and unruly, dark rather than her sister's lovely red.

Sigrun had worked for the Carta before Beraht came onto the scene. Natia barely remembered her leaving Dust Town; most of the casteless had shown up to her ceremonial funeral, which was really just an excuse to throw a roaring party and drink all the ale the Legion could supply. That was the night she had met Leske and gotten drunk off her head for the first time, which was why she remembered it at all.

A cloud of bats rose from the dragons' bones as they approached the Dragonbone Wastes, coming off of the Imperial Highway. They circled overhead and winged away from the setting sun in a chorus of squeaks and flapping wings. Natia did not like the implications of that. Bats did not generally like roosting outside of caves.

"We're here. Keep your eyes open for dragons. And mirrors." Finn glanced around over-cautiously, as if expecting the ancient dragons buried there to spring back to life.

"I have experience killing dragons, don't worry," said Natia, but she flexed her hands and pulled her axes ready.

"We should not have come here after dark," muttered Ariane, drawing her bow.

They walked slowly, stealthily, placing one foot in front of the other as carefully as they could manage. Natia, an experienced criminal, and Ariane, the Dalish warrior, made no noise as they went. Finn, the overexuberant mage who had learned quite a bit since leaving Kinloch Hold, didn't make terribly much noise, though to Natia it sounded like a stampeding bronto. He cast light on their path with his staff until it left them night-blind to any dangers outside of their radius of light; Ariane told him with a low hiss to snuff it.

The wolf's eyes reflected the pale half-moon, far above. Other eyes, multiple pairs of eyes, gleamed down at them from atop a nearby skeleton. The wolf's snarling growl was all the warning they had before the dragonlings launched at them, claws tearing and fangs ripping and flames licking at their arms and legs. They tangled in a flurry of steel and dragonfire, and Finn gave them a cautionary shout before blinding them all with a brilliant flash of light. The dragonlings squawked and reeled, their far more sensitive eyes blinded; Natia blinked away afterimages and hacked at the aggressive young dragons before they could recover. Ariane's bowstring thrummed as she struck one after another in their sensitive nostrils and eyes. Her wolf clung grimly to the largest's neck as it tried to shake him off, worrying at its tough hide with his teeth.

And then it was over.

"Not bad," said Natia, putting away her axes and examining the corpses. "Wade will be happy. This will make some fine leather armour."

"Watch out!" Finn shouted, casting fire over her head, catching the stranger who had attempted to leap on her from the shadows. She ducked and rolled away, coming up with her boot-knife in one hand and two smaller throwing knives in the other.

"Shit," said Natia eloquently upon seeing the human who had tried to kill her from behind. "Dragon worshipper. Where there's one, there's—Ariane, behind you!"

Her warning was unnecessary. By the time Ariane had spun around, Banal'ras had leapt on her attacker with a fearsome snarl and latched onto the arm held out to protect the cultist's throat, worrying at it as the human screamed. Natia let one of her throwing-knives fly, ending his misery. Another just missed its mark as more dragon worshippers poured out of the enormous skeletons around them, hitting a ferocious-looking woman in the shoulder instead of the throat. Finn swept his staff in front of them, drawing a wall of fire on the ground between them, giving the two women just enough time to draw their weapons before it dissipated. Three men wearing only hide armor and warpaint charged them all at once, howling madly with blood in their eyes: Natia found herself in fierce battle with the shortest, who could have been a half-dwarf if such a thing existed.

" 'Keep an eye out for dragons,' he says. Dragon _cultists_ seem to be the more dangerous." Ariane shook her head.

"I've never met a dragon worshiper before. Not much for small talk, are they?" Finn called as he caught their two archers in a paralysis hex.

"Why would anyone worship a dragon?" Ariane ducked under a cultist's wild two-handed axe swings and took his head with a sweep of her sword, adding under her breath, "_isenathe'dirthelan_.[2] I never understood that word before."

"Dragons are big, powerful, and they breathe fire. Some people are easily impressed." The mage shrugged expansively, twirling his staff and planting it firmly enough on a fallen cultist's head that his skull caved in, stilling the man's attempts to slice their ankles open. He grimaced at the mess on his staff and wiped it carefully off on the cleanest bit of cloth he could find on their enemies' bodies. "I, not so much."

Around the next bend they found more cultists, these ones guarding a drake and several much younger dragonlings, freshly hatched out of a nearby nest. The cultists were hampered by their efforts to protect the hatchlings, and were thus dispatched easily enough. The drake took a bit more work to kill, nearly biting Natia in two, instead managing to sink its teeth into her shoulder and shaking her like a dog. He released her when Ariane stabbed it in the side and Finn immediately engulfed it in a burst of electricity, finishing it off.

Natia had landed in a crumpled heap. With Finn assisting, she managed to get to her feet, staggering as they walked. She chewed the elfroot she'd taken from the book in the Circle Tower to stem the pain, though it didn't help much. Ariane scouted ahead with Banal'ras as Finn pulled off her leather cuirass and applied an injury kit. Ariane soon returned with good news: she'd found the cultists' camp. They decided to spend the rest of the night there, while Nat's injury healed.

The bedrolls looked invitingly soft and waterproof, there was some sort of tasty-smelling stew bubbling over the fire, and there was a chest full of stuff the cultists took from innocent passerbys. Finn found a magical amulet shaped like a dragon's head with rubies for eyes which gave the wearer fire resistance; since he was already wearing a pendant that boosted his reserves of magic and Ariane wore a Dalish necklace designed to enhance her attack speed, the dragon necklace went to Natia. As a dwarf she was already resistant to magical fire, but a dragon's fire ignored her natural resistance and regular fire still burned her. This amulet was quite a boon. They would likely be facing more dragonlings in the morning when they made their way through the rest of the Wastes. She used her uninjured arm to tug it on, letting it settle in the valley of her chest next to the Warden amulet she'd gotten months ago from her Joining.

Ariane scouted further with Banal'ras while the other two took stock of what all they had and finished cooking the stew, which turned out to be rabbit-and-potato. When the Dalish warrior returned, she had an odd expression on her face, as if she had tasted a very sour fruit. "_E, hronlahnemah—_"[3] and then she sneezed, violently, several times in quick succession, her eyes tearing up. "There must be black mold about, that always makes me sneeze."

"Mold makes you sneeze?" Nat found that odd. Dwarves sneezed if they got the flux, though it wasn't easy for them to catch it. She'd seen a plague wrought by Tevinter blood magic in the Denerim Alienage more than a year before, and those elves hadn't really sneezed that she'd seen. Why would _mold_ make Ariane sneeze? Did it carry some sort of Elf-exclusive disease?

"Yes, I don't know why. It always has. My mother is the same way." She screwed up her face as if she would sneeze again, then released a shuddering breath when it became apparent she wouldn't. "I hate it, but there's nothing that can be done."

"It's called an 'allergy'," said Finn knowledgeably. He scraped the bottom of his bowl, gathering the last scraps of stew, and tipped it into his mouth. "This is delicious stew. I didn't realize dragon cultists ate so well."

Nat and Ariane stared at him. "An allergy?" the dwarf prompted.

"Oh, yes. Some people sneeze around hay, some people can't eat nuts, others sneeze around animal hair. It's not very common. Elfroot doesn't really help. But you seem to be fine now, anyways." He ladled himself more stew. "Mmm. Delicious."

In the morning, they made their way through the Wastes, killing the few dragonlings that hadn't found them earlier. Deeper within, they found their way underground blocked by a magical barrier with a giant creature guarding it.

"What...is...that?" Finn charged his staff with a fire spell, backing up a few steps as he did so.

"I've never seen the like, not in all my travels across Ferelden and the Deep Roads," Natia marvelled. "It's like a giant spider...except, it doesn't have as many legs, and it's the size of a High Dragon."

"A...a varterral! It can't be. They're only legends!" Ariane shook her head in bewilderment. "It is said they were rock and tree, wind and rain, given form and breath by the elven gods to protect their people."

"Very poetic," Nat commented.

The beast jumped down from the building it had been standing on. Its shrieking cry hurt their ears; they all covered their ears reflexively, wincing.

"To protect their people? Then why does it look like it's going to eat you?" Finn shouted over the sound.

It attacked by spitting something like spiderweb at them, which caught at their limbs slowed their movements. Each blow from its large pincer-like front legs drove them back, though it mostly tried to snap at them with its horrifying mouth. When it moved, its legs thudded on the ground with the heaviness of a High Dragon's, though it was far more agile. Occasionally it leapt up on all its five limbs and tried to land on one of them. Natia, the only one of them with experience fighting anything this size, used the hooks on the back of her axe-heads to climb up onto the creature's back and hacked at its neck. Meanwhile, two small dragons jumped down from a nearby cave and ran hissing, wings half-extended, at Finn and Ariane, who were trying to avoid the varterral's stunning blows.

"Drakes!" Natia yelled, warning them from her vantage point.

"This is going well!" Finn spun around and cast a paralysis hex at the closest drake, which hesitated a moment before shaking it off and bounding forward with an enraged hiss. "...I think."

Nat jumped from the varterral's corpse as it collapsed and onto the drake's back, killing it upon her landing with a well-placed blow from Aodh, then slid off of that corpse. Finn blocked the other drake's firebreathing with a wall of ice as Ariane attacked it from behind, and her wolf distracted it by attacking its legs. Finally the battle finished. The magical barrier remained, however.

"I'm out of magic," declared Finn, after ineffectually trying to collapse the barrier with a small arcane bolt. "I think that's a spirit barrier...I'll have to attack it with lightning magic once I'm recovered. Meanwhile, I'm hungry!"

"We just ate some very tasty stew," Natia reminded him. "Come to think of it, I'm hungry too. Fighting dragons and varterrals really takes it out of you."

They did not go back to the cultists' camp, where soft bedrolls awaited, though they wanted to; it was too far away, and they had lost a lot of time already. Instead, Banal'ras caught a rabbit and they roasted it over the fire. Finn had a large appetite due to expending all his magical reserves, and Natia had a Warden's high metabolism. Ariane, as a Dalish warrior, also had a high metabolism—but not nearly as high as a Warden's.

Inside the cave, they were briefly distracted by a strange statue in the middle of the water, then Natia saw something casting light in the distance. They crested a rise to find the Eluvian set in the skeleton of a massive High Dragon, glowing, with Morrigan walking around the mirror, examining it.

"The Eluvian! And it's...glowing? We should—" Finn said, excited.

Ariane put a hand out, stopping Finn from moving forward. Morrigan halted, touching the glowing Eluvian with a flat hand. It rippled like water where she touched it. Morrigan glanced back, clearly seeing them, then looked back at the mirror, not pulling her hand away.

"I think she's...expecting you," said Ariane. As Natia moved forward, she added in an undertone, "Ask her about our book!"

Morrigan turned as Nat approached, crossing her arms. "No further, please. One more step and I leave. For good this time."

"There's no need to run," Nat assured her, though that depended entirely on the answers she received.

"I assume you know what this is," the witch said. "I have gone to great lengths to find and activate this portal. Give me reason and I use it, and you will not be able to follow."

"The Eluvians are portals? To where?" This, Natia had to admit, was not a scenario she had been anticipating. Where did Morrigan think she would be going? And why had the apostate waited to go through, knowing she was following? Was there another Eluvian, waiting for her to come through?

"To another place, beyond this world and beyond the Fade. But this portal can only be used once more. Achieving even this much was... difficult. If it is used again after I pass through, I do not what could happen." If it hadn't been Morrigan saying it, Natia would have said she was worried.

"Then why haven't you left, if that's true?"

"I remained to see if it was truly you. I had to know. Tell me: why did you come?" Morrigan held her gaze impassively as she asked. Her usually scornful face had regained the health she had lost over the months spent living in Blighted lands.

"We were friends once, Morrigan." Nat's jaw clenched. She looked away, then back. "You had to know? I have to know. Could you have saved him? Would it—_could_ it have worked?"

"And you once argued with me that love is not weakness. I will never understand you. And you will never understand me." Morrigan turned her face away to study the glimmering surface of the Eluvian. Something passed through her eyes, and she shifted her balance. Natia realized that she was planning to walk through at the soonest opportunity: perhaps even before her questions were answered.

"We helped each other even so. I won't understand unless you help me to. Answer my question, please, Morrigan, love may be a weakness for you...but it is the strength of the dwarva." She stepped closer, imploring the witch who had once been her friend, of sorts. "I am begging you."

"Yes, I suppose we did. I...would not even know where to begin explaining." She looked beyond Natia then, her eyes falling on something distant, beyond the physical realm.

"What is your plan? I want to know."

"I suppose we were friends, of a sort," Morrigan allowed. She turned again to the Eluvian, and Natia saw her as a silhouette against its soft amethyst glow. "I...would not even know where to begin explaining. My plan is to leave, and prepare for what is to come. Such preparations require time. And power. I must have both, if I am to be successful. More than this, I dare not say. Even to you, dwarf."

"Was there no other way?" The dwarf scrubbed dust from her eye with one palm. It was only dust, not tears, never tears, she would not give the Witch of the Wilds the satisfaction.

"I...am sorry, Natia." She paused, then continued, turning back to Nat and fixing her with a hawk's golden gaze. "Allow me to provide you a warning. 'Tis Flemeth you should beware of, not me. Hunt her, if you hunt anyone."

This shocked Nat out of her desperate grief. "Flemeth is dead."

"My mother has tricked her way past death and more. She is no more finished than I am. I thought I knew what Flemeth planned. I thought what she craved was immortality. And yet I was wrong. So very wrong." As she spoke, she descended the steps from the Eluvian. "She is no blood mage, no abomination...she is not even truly human. The ritual was but a means to an end, a herald for what is to come."

"What? Why? What's going to happen?" A chill ran down her spine.

"Change is coming to the world. Many fear change, and will fight it with every fibre of their being. But sometimes change is what they need most. Sometimes, change is what sets them free."

"And is that what you want, to be free?"

"What I want...is unimportant now." Morrigan turned and walked back up to the Eluvian. Nat followed, wincing as the mostly-healed wounds from the earlier skirmishes ached. When they reached the dais, Morrigan turned back to her. "I cannot tarry longer. The time has come for me to go."

"You don't have to do this alone, Morrigan."

"I do. I wish it was not so. There is one last thing I must tell you, if you will allow me. I left you a gift. The Dalish book is there, and something you will find of great interest." She indicated her camp, nestled in the ground nearby. _She must have stayed there last night_. "Now...will you let me go?"

"Go, then, if you must. But, please, tell me." The dwarf swallowed convulsively. "Tell me. Could you have saved him?"

"Goodbye, my friend." Morrigan did not answer her. She turned and touched the Eluvian again, making color burst across the horizon, then lowered her hand and walked through with a great flare of light. The mirror rippled like a pond where she passed through.

"Morrigan! Tell me! Morrigan!" With a cry of desperate grief and inordinate rage, Natia lunged after the witch, but the mirror stilled before she touched it. It rang like a bell when she slammed her fist against it, then her fist went through as if the glass had become gelatin, sucking her in after it. She fell and fell and fell some more, all of time and space revealed before her eyes: and then the stars all went out at once and she landed in a cold, dark cave, striking her head on a rock, once, twice as she rolled down—she came to rest against a formation of stalagmites and knew no more.

* * *

_[1]Taken from BioWare's Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening website  
__[2]isenathe'dirthelan'en: the plural of isenathe'dirthelan: one who speaks to dragons, dragon talker, dragon friend  
__[3]hronlahnemah: future participle. about to sneeze; e! similar to oh! or ah!_


	11. The Shadowed Keep

**_PART TWO: WELCOME TO MIDDLE EARTH_**

**_Welcome to Middle Earth. All original content (though not all original characters) for many chapters to come!_**

_The Darkspawn race and origins bear similarities to the origin of Orcs in J. R. R. Tolkien's Middle-earth legendarium. As the Old Gods tried to usurp Heaven, the Ainur Morgoth and his followers tried to usurp Valinor; they were cast out to Arda, where they corrupted many living things to serve them; the Old Gods were cast down to Thedas, and the Taint they brought corrupted many. Without Morgoth or his servants leading them, Orcs tend to remain underground, and often war with Dwarves, as do the Darkspawn without Archdemons._

**_Early winter, Dol Goldur, in Mirkwood:_**

For an eternity Brosca hung suspended in nothing, an infinity in every direction, the light of stars growing brilliant and dim in turn, dying and being reborn from their own ashes. The universe spun around her, and she looked into its depths. She grew old and withered and regressed to her youth a thousand times, the Song always in her thoughts, harsh and beautiful. Eons passed in an eyeblink, and the world arose before her again, a swirling mass of blue and green and white that she knew to be sea and land and sky. Her back turned to the world and she stretched out her hands towards the stars as she fell.

_What a strange dream_, she thought, and opened her eyes to a darkness so pure it could only be underground. The darkspawn kept crude torches in the Deep Roads, and all Orzammar was constantly alight; there were cave systems closer to the Surface, however, where no light penetrated. The eluvian must have dropped her here. She wondered where Morrigan was, if they had arrived in the same place, if the witch had left her behind.

_"Undur kurv, lulgijak!"_[1] A harsh, gutteral voice, like the crack of a whip and the boom of thunder, in the distance. It could have been a hurlock, although usually they only laughed their terrible laugh. Perhaps an emissary? Brosca was not sure. It echoed oddly, too far away to tell, far above her.

_"Nar thos zanbaur."_[2] A different voice, and then came the sound of a scuffle. A third barked out more strange words, breaking up the fight, and footsteps faded away, leaving her in near-total silence.

_Not darkspawn. No darkspawn at all._ Her mind stuck on that. She had to be far from the Deep Roads, which always teemed with Taint. She had little in the way of stone-sense, being an untrained casteless dwarf who had spent a year on the Surface, but she could tell that she was far underground. And yet, there was no sense of darkspawn anywhere.

Somewhere nearby, a stalactite dripped into a pool of water. She wouldn't go thirsty, at least. She lay listening to that steady drip for several long minutes, gathering stock of herself: all her fingers and toes were in working order, her neck didn't hurt, her back ached but only from lying on stone. A metal door shocked her when it clanged, far above. The echoes faded away slowly.

"I cannot lie here all day and do nothing: time is rusting," she said to herself, and got up at last. Her pack, remarkably, remained intact: the three health poultices and a small injury kit she had left were whole, her waterskin still full, her food enough to last her a few days if she rationed it carefully. She took stock of the rest of her gear and found it in good condition, even the little cooking-pot which she'd thought she'd left with Finn the night before. Her Crow dagger, which had been Zevran's before he'd ambushed them, and the small vials of concentrated Crow poison were rolled up in her Warden leathers, left in the bottom of the pack during the weeks she'd spent travelling undercover. Aodh and Veshialle, her beloved waraxes, were a bit dinged up: _nothing I can't fix with some careful attention._ The runes Sandal had placed on the blades, to keep a sharp edge, deliver frostbite, and burn the undead, looked like they hadn't been damaged at all. They never were: Sandal was a master enchanter.

She pulled out her dagger and coated it with the Crow poison, just in case, and slid the other vial inside a secret pocket in her leathers. Her axes she set carefully between her bedroll and Warden armour, blades facing out so if anyone jumped her from behind they would get their stomach sliced open for the trouble, and then packed everything else atop. The flint and steel she used briefly to take a look at her surroundings. The runes on the axes would glow and light her path, but they would also reveal her position to whatever beasts lived in this cave system.

Brosca strained her sense for the Taint, reaching for the Song in the back of her mind that she usually shied away from: it wouldn't hurt to tap into that once, surely, just to see if there were any others around? It might hasten her Calling, but if she didn't get out of here soon, she might not make it that long anyways.

No Wardens, and no darkspawn, not for miles. The farthest she'd ever sensed one had been at a distance of five miles, but that had been an ogre, burning far more brightly in her mind than the softer glow of hurlocks, genlocks, and sharlocks. Of course, archdemons burned brighter even than that, but hopefully she would not feel a Tainted God ever again. No Song...she could not hear the Song. She could not hear them Call to her.

_Where is it? Where's the Song? You've Called to me for months, why are you silent now?_ The Old Gods, buried deep beneath the earth, constantly Called for someone to find them and awaken them. It was what drove the darkspawn deeper and deeper into the earth, to find their masters. It was what drove all Grey Wardens mad, eventually, turning them into ghouls like any other touched by the Taint. And now there was nothing. No Call. No haunting Song in the back of her mind, urging her deeper darker farther down—her mind was quiet, peaceful.

"This must be the other side of the world," Brosca muttered. "I must be so far away that I cannot hear them..." She had not dreamt of them, either, though that wasn't unusual. Most of the time she slept dreamlessly, as all dwarva did, except for Blight-dreams. She remembered a waking dream, between stepping into the Eluvian and waking up in this cavern: an infinity of darkness, broken only by distant glimmering points of light. She had flown among the stars and they had seemed even further away than when she had feet planted on solid ground.

"I'm not one for prayin, Ancestors," she said, looking down to the Stone as was proper, her speech relapsing to Dust Town cant. "You know that. You named me irredeemable from birth, as I recall, so you probably don't want my prayers anyhow. But please, give me, uh, strength or somethin. _Stone,_ I wish Duran was here. He'd know what to do." _He always knew what to do._ Tears glimmered in her eyes; she clenched her fists and shook her head once, refusing to let them fall. She'd cried enough. He wouldn't want her to mourn him forever.

She ate a small breakfast before packing away what remained of her food. Her eyes had re-adjusted to the darkness, but it still wasn't light enough to make her way easily through the maze of stalagmites that nearly tripped her more than once. She found the pool of cave-water by listening; it reflected just enough light that she could tell there was light, and she drank deep. No evidence of bats meant that the water was clean and full of minerals, though it tasted stale, unlike the Aedros Atuna[3] which quenched the thirst for all the dwarva in Orzammar.

She made her way through the cave system with all deliberate stealth, keeping the poisoned dagger out just in case she stumbled across somebody that would rather eat her than help her. For hours she walked silently up a steady incline, then turned a corner and paused when she suddenly could see a flickering light. Far above her, somebody carried a torch. It cast dancing shadows that stretched all the way to where she stood, giving her just enough light to see a nug's-track trail going up.

"Perfect," she breathed, and fixed the path in her inner map. Now even if the torch went out, she would be able to climb up to where it had been. But for now, she tired of walking, and sat down on a convenient flat space. She rested with her back against the wall for several minutes, her eyes closed and her breathing deep. When her breaths drew evenly again, she pulled her rations out again and ate.

Presently she stood again and walked; for another few hours she continued, although twice she had to make her way carefully across fallen rubble and once find her way through a crawlspace for what seemed an Age. At last her way became lighter, and her pace quickened: she could see torchlight reflecting off the wall at the next turn. Strange voices speaking a strange tongue echoed ahead, but they sounded lower than she. Overconfident, she turned the corner and stumbled, blinded by the sudden light right at her eye-level. Her arms flung up to protect her vision, and she stepped wrongly: she flailed in open air with a shout and landed solidly on a crude table, around which three hurlocks (they couldn't be hurlocks, they had no Taint) sat playing cards.

For a moment she and the three untainted hurlocks stared at each other. Then she rolled off their card game and bolted for the open doorway she could see, her vision now cleared of spots. She didn't recognize the style of architecture at all; _perhaps Tevinter,_ she thought, _I'm in the Tevinter Imperium? Would Morrigan go there?_ But then, why were there hurlocks here that she could not sense? She still didn't sense them. She didn't sense the other hurlocks that startled as she raced past, either. Behind her, she heard them yelling in that strange tongue, different from the uncivilized grunting of the Darkspawn and yet just as painful on her ears. Armored feet pounded behind her, weapons slammed against shields; apparently they were trying to drive her out with sound alone.

Brosca ran as fast as she could manage, turning through doorways and crawling underneath a table to hide as a dozen couldn't-be-hurlocks run past. She became hopelessly lost: her dwarven stone-sense didn't give her any clue as to which direction is the Surface, although it was very definite that Down is That Way. She got cornered by two those-_aren't_-hurlocks that rounded a corner just as she did, and managed to surprise them enough that only the one got off a single blow as she sliced the other's throat, before dying himself.

_They are not hurlocks._ Brosca sucked in a quick breath, studying their dead forms. _They don't wear darkspawn armour, their skin is grey and their features disgusting but not Tainted. They don't look like hurlocks would without the Taint_. Their weapons were crude but not darkspawn-forged, and they would work better than her waraxes, still hidden away in her pack. She kicked herself for leaving her best weapons hidden away as she took one's sword and buckled it around her waist, then jammed on a helm that was far too large for her and ran again.

It didn't take more than five minutes for her to be cornered by a troop of them. "Clearly, I've gotten complacent in my dotage." She killed three of them before the sword she was unused to was knocked aside, and then another two died to her poisoned dagger. The largest of them wielded a battle-axe in one hand as easily as she would Aodh. He walked forward, brushing the other not-hurlocks aside as if they did not exist, and set the edge of his axe at her throat.

"Who dares enter Dol Goldur?" the one she would have called an Alpha had he been a hurlock snarled, pressing against her skin, just lightly enough that it didn't break through. "Who dares defy the Necromancer?"

"_Khozd!_ Dwarf-scum!"[4] came a muttering from the other beasts, who seemed to have more intelligence than the darkspawn's bestial cunning. Their voices were gutteral, and their tongue like the crack and boom of rolling thunder. A chant swelled as they bared broken teeth at her: "Kill the dwarf-scum! Break it, eat it, grinds its bones!"

"I am a dwarf of the Grey," Nat said with as much Dust Town bravery as she could manage, but held out the dagger with two fingers and dropped it: it clattered to the ground and the alpha not-hurlock stepped on it. The Antivan steel did not break, but she wouldn't be able to grab it now if she tried. "You do not frighten me!"

"Kill the dwarf-scum, bind it break it eat its flesh boil its bones!" The chant grew louder and the creatures pressed back in eagerly. "Bind-it-break-it-eat-it-kill-it!"

"You must have come here to find the King-Under-the-Mountain! Thráin, son of Thror!" The alpha laughed abruptly, a horrible sound that made her shudder, and the chant died away to a mutter as he pulled his battle-axe from her neck. "What say you, boys, should we show our new guest the King?"

The weapons lowered, and the other creatures laughed as well, the cackling grunts that Brosca became so used to after so long fighting darkspawn. She decided not to challenge his assumption that she came there to find the King: the only dwarva King she knew was Harrowmont. _King-Under-the-Mountain?_ Did Kal Sharok have their own King? She couldn't remember. Kal Hirol still answered to Orzammar, didn't they?

They herded her through crumbling passageways going ever higher until finally they broke out onto the Surface and she discovered that they were not in a developed cavern, as she had thought, but rather the ruins of an ancient, shadowy keep on a hill overlooking a massive forest. In the distance she could see mountains, most definitely _not_ the Frostbacks, the only mountains she'd ever known. The dusk-dark sky was heavy with the potential of rain; clouds were settling down around them as fog, and the air had the bite of winter. It hadn't been winter in Ferelden.

_Where did the mirror take me?_

They passed through crumbling remains into a tower with sharp spires that looms ominously overhead. Multitudes of powerfully built not-hurlocks watched her everywhere she looked. When the sound of snarling wolves drew her attention, she looked down over the edge of a treacherous walkway to see massive wolf-like creatures snapping at each other in a pit. Not-hurlocks muttered as she passed, their eyes gleaming in the shadows, their faces lined with cruelty. Many of them had tattoos far more menacing than hers on their faces and broad bare chests.

At last they reached the top of the shadowed keep, where Something stood near a broken throne, a figure shrouded in shadow whose edges flickered as if he stood in the pupil of a great fiery eye. He saw her—_he sees me—I cannot look away—_

_"Little dwarf. There is a shadow in you, yet it is not of you. You do not belong to me, nor to Melkor."_ Once before, Natia had come across ice so cold it burned her when she touched it. This voice burned her in the same way, cold enough to freeze her throat and hold her thoughts captive.

A scream wrenched from her and she fell to her knees despite the iron grip of the not-hurlocks. Insidious whispers breathed promises and threats in the darkest parts of her mind. Her thoughts turned towards the wretched beautiful call of the Old Gods, flashing through the nightmares of the Blight that hadn't quite gone away—_never thought I could wish to hear Urthemiel again_, she thought distantly—and she screamed again, long and loud until her voice gave way.

Time passed, what seems like hours in a bare few moments. "_Take her away._" The shadowed figure turned his gaze away and she, freed at last from a terrible malice she had no hope of understanding, passed out.

The butt of a sword to her temple roused her with a sharp headache; she was drawn to her feet and shoved once more. The not-hurlocks did not take her pack from her, which she thought was odd, but then again she, as their prisoner, had no hope of escape: not if they are led by that. "The Necromancer," she mumbled, and laughed and laughed at the absurdity of the name. _He is not the Necromancer, he is death itself._

"_Do not kill her,_" the strange terrible Shadow added as an afterthought.

She managed the barest glance backwards towards He as the not-hurlocks swept her out of the throne room, just as the dark clouds overhead burst open, and could see only shadows upon the empty throne. Nat turned her eyes to her feet to try and not trip over the broken stone, though it was a useless task, with her captors being twice her height and not inclined to be gentle. They came to a precipice and—

"Behold, Thráin son of Thror son of Dáin, King of Erebor!" cried the mighty, pale-eyed Not-Hurlock, and thrust her down and away.

She lost awareness of her surroundings as she fell down, down, down into a dungeon. She landed roughly, breaking her arm and probably a few ribs. She passed out again. When she awoke, she could only feel pain, that and a callous-roughened hand stroking her brow and a dwarven voice singing in a slow, deep bass a song of ancient Dwarva.

_...baraka_  
_Aznân_  
_ra karaka_  
_atkât...[5]_

She struggled to open her eyes. An elderly dwarf with matted hair and a tangled beard sat by her, his eyes focused on days long past. He wore ragged clothes, feet bare and black with disease and cold; his body was thin and scarred and his limbs skeletal from long imprisonment. He peered at her with clouded blue eyes when he felt her stir.

"_Shamukh!_" he cried, and pulled her close for a hug with surprising strength. "_Nâm, sigin ganarmi zusul, ya rakhâs!_"[6]

"I don't understand." She pulled herself free and groped frantically in the dim light for her pack. Her ribs burned with every breath, and her arm was surely broken, though the bone had not gone through her skin, which she thanked the Ancestors for. "What was that song? What were you speaking?"

"Young you must be, if you do not know our tongue, nor Durin's Song." His fingers went to his impressively long beard and stroked it. "_Nâm_, long have I been alone, with only _shalmêl_ [7] orcs for company!"

"Is that what those beasts are?"

Her pack rested on the ground where her head had been. She opened it one-handed and went through it—her waraxes were still bundled in her Warden leathers, her bedroll still neatly rolled up, but her waterskin had split open and most of her things were soaked. She brought out the remains of her food and gave him some of the jerky, which had softened in the water but hadn't gone bad, and ate the soggy hardcakes herself. One health poultice had broken, but hadn't dried up completely, so she slathered it on her arm and then splinted it.

"Eat," she said, noticing the other dwarf had not taken a bite. "You look like you need it."

"I have become used to meager fare," said he, and carefully tore off a piece of jerky. He chewed it slowly, savouring it, before finally swallowing. "Thank you."

"I have lived thirty-two years, near thirty-three," said she in answer to his earlier implied question, and breathed easier as the healing poultice went to work on her ribs. Lyrium-based magics did not affect the dwarva, after millenia spent living and breathing so near the raw veins of it: but elfroot used a magic of its own, and easily healed most non-fatal injuries. "I have never seen the like of those beasts."

"Then you are lucky, _khamith_[8]," said he, and peered at her more closely, his eyes cleared by the food he ate. "_Mi targê_,[9] you are a dwarrowdam! A _khamûna_[8] in the depths of the Hill of Sorcery, how came this? How came you here? Thirty-two, you said: far too young to be away from the safety of our halls."

"I fell," she said, voice blank, "and found myself in the depths of this—this hill of sorcery, this Dol Goldur, alone and far from everywhere I know. I am a scout-warrior, I will always be such, I will not remain safe while others fight in great battles: that is how I came here. My Prince, my beloved, died in my arms and I sought the witch who could have prevented it. She fled through an artifact of ancient Arlathan: a seeing-glass, called Eluvian. I went after her and...I fell, and found myself here." Brosca huddled in on herself, remembering the infinity she had witnessed between worlds, the void that stretched forever. She could not speak of it, that time between worlds, aging and dying and growing younger again. She was not sure if she truly was still only thirty-two, when she had experienced thousands of years in an eyeblink.

"_Â_! [10] You have come truly far. I have not heard of this Arlathan, or of a seeing-glass called Eluvian." He put an arm around her, though it shook with the effort. "Your beloved, dying in your arms: truly that is _'unkhash_ [11], would that I could have spared you, _khamûna._ I am Thráin, a Longbeard from the fallen kingdom of Erebor, King-in-Exile until the _uslukh_ [12] is driven out."

"You are a king. Honoured, Your Majesty. I'm Brosca of Orzammar, a—" Brosca cut herself off. Orc voices echoed outside, laughing as they came closer. Thráin stood with what little strength he had left and moved in front of her. Once, he had been a formidable warrior, she was sure: the proof of that was in his bearing and the numerous scars on his hands and arms. More recent scars that could only be the result of torture showed beneath his discoloured clothing.

"Say nothing," he instructed, voice barely more than a whisper. "Hide _id-fakt_ [13]. If they see it, they will take it."

Nat nodded, understanding the order though she didn't know the term he had used. She tossed her pack in the back corner, hurriedly scattering dirty straw over it. She returned to standing by Thráin with the hand of her unbroken arm in a white-knuckled fist just as two orcs, smaller than the others she'd seen, approached. They jeered at the two dwarves in their own language, their grins showing blackened, crooked teeth, their faces a mishmash of ugly features. Both bristled with weapons and had their belts decorated with shriveled ears, trophies from their kills.

"The Necromancer wants t' see you, _Yer Majesty,"_ said the one with the squashed nose, laughing harshly, bowing with an imitation of respect as the other pulled open the cell door.

"Let's go, dwarf-scum," growled the door-opener. Thráin stepped forward with dignity, head high and resolute. He did not look back to Nat as the door swung shut behind him. She wrapped her fingers around the iron bars and watched them until the torchlight vanished behind the curve of stone, listening to him sing a dwarven dirge as he walked to meet the Necromancer.

"_Irkat-lukhud ma_  
_katabrikihu_  
_Ulfat-atam ma_  
_tanakhi uduhu_  
_bin-nât aznân tarsisi_

_Bazar udu agânî-furkhîn_  
_Gurd!_  
_Ma nîd sakhu!_  
_Ma satf unkhai!_  
_Atkât zatagrafizu_  
_Zatablugi sulluzu..."_[14]

They passed out of her sight, and the last vestiges of flickering torchlight disappeared when a door beyond her range of vision swung shut with a reverberating clang. Far above her, she could make out the sight of the night sky, letting in just enough light that she could see her hand in front of her face. Once she was sure the orcs had gone far enough away, she backed off from the cell door and went back for her pack. She needed to treat her arm and ribs, and quickly. Hopefully—yes—there was her small injury kit. She could set her arm properly on her own, but broken ribs could be very dangerous without treatment. She already felt a little short of breath from trying not to aggravate the injury.

The injury kit worked quickly once applied; the sharp ache dulled to something like a bruise within minutes. She breathed easier and got up from where she had been kneeling near the pack. It was in remarkable shape for going through so much; she was astonished that the orc guards hadn't seen it when they'd brought her before the Necromancer. Perhaps they simply didn't care? Perhaps they were too stupid to understand what it was? None of them had been using packs, that she'd seen, though admittedly she hadn't taken the time to look at them properly. They were ugly, evil sons of bitches that wanted to kill her; that's all she had needed to know. The Necromancer wasn't like his minions, however, and surely he could have seen it...if he could see at all.

Speaking of—she had to take everything out, see if anything could be salvaged from the split waterskin. She sat cross-legged with her back against the wall opposite the door and rummaged through everything. The Warden leathers were half-soaked, but should dry well. At least, if it didn't rain, since it looked like the cell would flood if it rained too much. Her current leathers were pretty tattered after traveling in them for so long and fighting in them so often; she decided to switch over to the azure-and-argent Warden uniform and use what was left of her un-ornamented Warden outfit to splint her arm. There had to be something here to splint it with. A dagger, perhaps? Or a sheath. Yes; the Crow dagger had a sheath about the right size. The dagger itself had been taken away by the large orc but she still had the sheath, somewhere. It wasn't quite as long as her forearm, but the break was a clean one, as far as she could tell, and if she was careful it wouldn't heal too crookedly.

Hours passed before Natia again heard a door scrape open and saw a flicker of torchlight. Two orcs, similar size to the ones who'd come for the Dwarf-King earlier and still much larger than any dwarf, scuttled backwards toward her, dragging the slumped form of Thráin between them. A third orc carried a ring of keys and a torch to light their way.

She gripped the bars of the cell as they came closer, hugging her broken arm to her chest. Thráin looked to be in a bad way. In the flickering torchlight, she could see fresh blood seeping over dried blood that had crusted on his head, and his shirt had been removed completely, revealing complicated tattoos on skin that was more bruised and broken than not. The hair on his chest was matted and brown with blood. His eyes were purple and swollen, blood bubbling in his mouth with every hoarse breath he took. She could see the edge of whip-marks curling around from his back: they had flogged him, and brutally.

The orc carrying the torch slammed it against the bars of the cell, nearly crushing her fingers. She released the bars just in time and her hand curled into a fist so tightly her knuckles turned white and her nails cut into her palm. He laughed at her cruelly and unlocked the door; it swung inward with a grating whine. He backhanded her casually, the force of the blow sending her stumbling back several steps, then stepped aside so the other two could toss Thráin within. The elderly dwarf landed in a crumpled heap on the bare stone floor and lay motionless.

"The Big Boss has plans for you, dwarf-scum," one of them said, leering at Natia. "Oh, yes, he has plans."

"Shaddup," ordered the one with the keys, pulling the door shut again. "Don't say nuthin', Audbosh, the Boss won't like it."

"What do you know, Colfaurg?" The three of them left, now focused on their own argument and ignoring the two dwarves. "You don't know nuthin."

"_Ambor mabas lafut_,"[15] said the third in a knowledgeable voice. "An' I want some _ambor_ tonight."

The far door closed with an echoing clang and their arguing voices faded away with their steps. Nat dropped to her knees beside the motionless Thráin and checked him over very carefully with her uninjured hand. His head lolled when she attempted to lift him up enough to pull him onto the softer hay, and afraid of causing him neck injury she put him down again. She arranged his limbs to a more comfortable position and sat with his head on her lap, stroking his bloody brow as he muttered in the unfamiliar dwarven language, broken half-words and incomplete sentences, eyes roving under the closed lids.

* * *

Neo-Khuzdûl taken from The Dwarrow Scholar, a Wordpress website. Bad grammar is purely a result of me trying to form sentences from the complicated dwarrow language. I picture Natia's leather armor as something like the Nexus mod "Grey Warden Triss armor Retexture", sized for a dwarf, the Lothering Warden alternate version without chainmail; the Grey Warden one would be the version with the blue and white stripes.

Orkish taken from angelfire website Colloquial Black Speech for Orcs, Trolls and Men

[1]Orkish insult. Undur kurv, lulgijak: "Fat whore, flowers in the blood"; "lulgijak" is what they call an elf.  
[2]Orkish insult. Nar thos zanbaur: "No sack elfson"  
[3]Aedros Atuna: An underground river in Orzammar which never sees the sun. Its clay is used by dwarven artisans for crafting. Taken from the Dragon Age wiki.  
[4]khozd - Orkish for dwarf  
[5]part of Durin's Song, taken from A Magpie's Nest: Discussing the Lord of the Rings Soundtrack, Source Songs &amp; Poems. Music by Howard Shore, text by Phillipa Boyens, translated by David Salo.  
[6]Shamukh! Nâm, sigin ganarmi zusul, ya rakhâs! Hail/Greetings! Ahh, long had I (been) alone, with orcs!  
[7]shalmêl: slime-of-all-slimes (muck, goo)  
[8]khamûna / khamith: youth-lady / gender neutral term for youth that is young/new/fresh  
[9]Mi targê: By my beard!  
[10]Â! A expression of fright or shock  
[11]'unkhash: greater/greatest sorrow  
[12]uslukh: dragon  
[13]id-fakt: the pack (item) noun, singular  
[14]The Abyss, from A Magpie's Nest. Music by Howard Shore, words by Phillipa Boyens, translated into Khuzdûl by David Salo.  
[15]Ambor mabas lafut: liquor after war. ambor is liquor


	12. Keeper of Secrets

_When Thráin heard Nar's recounting of what had become of his father and that an Orc ruled their ancestral home, he wept and tore his beard, and then fell silent. For seven days he sat and said no word. Then on the seventh day he stood up and declared, "This cannot be borne!" These words were the beginning of the War of the Dwarves and Orcs._

**_Winter's end, Dol Goldur, in Mirkwood:_**

A great and terrible Shadow loomed over her, taller than Kinloch Hold and as Tainted as the Archdemon Himself, and she felt like an ant about to be stepped on by a great heel. Long-taloned fingers of black fire, cold as ice, reached for her chin, forcing her to look directly at him. She closed her eyes and saw the great lidless Eye, turning the insides of her eyelids as red as the sun did on bright days. Terror clouded her thoughts. Was he going to torture her as he had yesterday? The icy fingers dropped her chin and gripped her head instead, piercing the skin and lancing white-hot rods of pain directly into her brain. If she screamed, she couldn't hear it through the roaring in her ears. Her sight went dark.

"You are worse than Urthemiel," she whispered, and it was the truth. Darkspawn were mindless, driven by the Old Gods to Taint everything they touched. Even when an Archdemon rose, the Blight was not malicious, though it was a conquering horde: the Tainted Gods had far more intelligence than the base darkspawn, but thought only to spread their terror and pain. No, this was deliberate, thinking cruelty, and she would tell this Necromancer nothing. "Nothing, nothing, I will tell you nothing."

"_Khamûna, khamûna, astî lo ya hû,"_[1] said Thráin, and his dwarven words brought her out of the nightmare. She opened her eyes to see his face leaning over hers. His bruises had faded to green, his eyes were no longer swollen and his teeth had settled back in their proper places.

She lay curled, her splinted arm folded awkwardly across her chest. For days now they had been coming for her, though not every day, just often enough to keep her jumping at every sound. At first they had asked if she knew Thráin, what her connection to him was, how she had planned to get him out. If there was an army coming after her. If there was a smaller company coming after her. Who her master was.

Days blurred together, even as nights grew longer and the weather turned sharp and frigid. Deep beneath the surface, the temperature was always the same, but the Necromancer insisted on having them brought up to him at his slightest whim, on the highest floor of the tower. He did not often question them himself. Most of the time, he seemed satisfied to look East with a burning hunger, or West with a terrible anger, while the ice on the stone bit into her skin and the winds buffeted her and he asked questions with his voice like shattered metal.

"_Who is Urthemiel?_" the Necromancer rasped, and despite herself the memory of the first time she'd seen the Archdemon over its army in the Deep Roads flashed to the forefront of her mind. The great and mighty Urthemiel, the Tevinter God of Beauty, the Tainted God who would decimate all of Thedas if he could—_(Urthemiel landed atop the battlements in Denerim, wings spread wide, far larger than the dragon Flemeth had turned into, roaring, his Song beautifully and terribly endless in the recesses of her mind)_

"_What is Thedas?_" the Necromancer asked, and involuntarily she recalled a map she'd seen once, spread out on the wall in Arl Eamon's study. Ferelden and Orlais, the Waking Sea, the Free Marches and Tevinter, Seheron and Par Vollen— this brought an image to mind of Sten, the hornless kossith that she'd travelled with. The ease with which he tore his enemies apart, the weeks he'd spent without food or drink standing in that cage, waiting for death, the massive two-handed sword he had called his _soul_. Deliberately, she tore her thoughts from the months she'd spent travelling with him and the rest, gathering armies to stop the Blight, and focused her thoughts instead on the Void she had fallen through. The emptiness between the stars, vast and stretching on in every direction without end, the pinpricks of light from the stars, the feeling of the magic she had flown on. _There is an eternity between worlds, and I have seen it._

"Thedas is far away, farther than you can ever go," she said, and tried to work up enough saliva to spit on his boots. The talons dug deeper in her mind, and she remembered the pain of the terrible shrieking cry of the varterral—how had Ariane described it? _rock and tree, wind and rain, given form to protect her people—_

The shadowy figure recoiled from her memory of the creature. "_An elven creation? Which of their gods made it?_"

"I don't know," she answered, but she _did_ know—_Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets—_

"_An unfamiliar name_," the Necromancer mused, turning away from her.

"Far from here," Natia muttered. "Far from here. Safe from you. Far from here." How long had she been gone now? Had Finn and Ariane returned to their homes? Did they stop in Orzammar to give the news to Rica? She hoped so. It didn't appear that she could return. Had Rica fostered out her son yet? She'd said she would. There had been at least one House to show interest in fostering the Heir-Apparent, Endrin son of Bhelen. Had Orzammar fallen apart in her absence? She wouldn't bet against it. It wasn't as though she cared, really. The deeplords could all rot. But Rica, Little Endrin, Leske—hell, she'd even grown fond of those Wardens under her command.

"_Khamûna, khamûna, astî lo ya hû,_"[1] said Thráin once more, and she focused long enough to see his worried face before falling back into a blessedly dreamless sleep. When she awoke, he had curled in on himself in the far corner of the cell, fiddling with something small and metallic and muttering to himself too quietly for her to hear.

Thráin grew more incoherent each time they took him, which was far more frequently than they took her. They remembered to feed her, though not often, and she lost what little fat she'd gained from her time of plenty. Her arm healed slightly crookedly from the imperfect splinting; it ached when it snowed, which was often.

The Necromancer stopped asking her anything new. He enjoyed watching her pain, she knew from the first, and enjoyed the way she screamed when the orcs hurt her. They didn't break bones, but they came very close. Several times they came close to violating her, only for the Necromancer to stop them at the last moment, warning them that he didn't want her broken quite yet. The torture stretched on for hours at a time, and often she passed out only to wake screaming from nightmares in the bowels of the dungeon, with Thráin too far gone in his own mind to help her.

She knew she had to escape before they tired of their entertainment. She just didn't know how.

* * *

Winter grew to fullness and the outer world turned white and silver with snow and ice. Frost crept down into the depths of the cells, though they nailed the upper opening shut before the snow could fall and freeze the two dwarves to death. They stopped coming for Thráin once he stopped responding in anything other than broken Dwarvish, and stopped taking her more often than once a week after it turned truly cold. Night and day now he tossed and turned, half awake and half asleep, muttering "_Rurukmi mat, mat...dashatê, dashatê, kunh dashatê? Dashatê, kunh astû?_" [2]

The dwarven King healed in body, after weeks of being left alone, but he did not heal in mind. Even the few times he awoke with clear eyes, he did not see her with any recognition, and he spoke only that dwarven tongue. He raved constantly, repeating the same few words: _rurukmi mat_, _dashatê_, and _kunh astû_?[2] Natia recalled to mind some of the verse he had sung that first night, the few words he could remember, and could sometimes entice him to join her in singing what he had called _Durin's Song_. This settled him for a bit, and often lulled him back to sleep, which was always better for him than being awake in the depths of Dol Goldur.

She slept as much as she could herself. There wasn't much else she could do, with her Warden metabolism burning off her meagre rations very quickly. They didn't bother feeding them, most days, and she grew gaunt and pale, and Thráin turned skeletal. The cold didn't help; they constantly shivered, burning off everything they ate just to keep themselves warm.

Somehow they survived the seemingly endless winter. The Necromancer seemed more and more preoccupied with something to the East, and eventually stopped bothering with Natia, too. That didn't stop the orcs from having fun with her, but they were careful not to break her, as they had Thráin.

The nights drew shorter and spring arrived slowly, with a constant rain that warmed enough only to melt the frost that still came with depressing regularity. The orcs, bad-tempered and foul-mouthed, took out their edginess more on themselves then on the two dwarves, and one day most of them left. The few that remained were terse, sullen, and alert for danger. More than once Natia overheard mutterings about elves, who apparently had flowers for blood.

A storm blew off part of the cover far above them, and none of the orcs bothered to replace it. Thrain felt well enough one day that he dragged himself to sit in the patch of sunlight. Spring had grown to fullness at last, leaving behind constant rain for cloudless skies and heat. Natia, who had become very weak from lack of food and clean water, huddled in their bundled rags and shuddered, half-delirious herself, clutching her much-worn pack to her chest. She had long given up on conversing with the mad king.

Presently there came a commotion above. _Another fight between orcs, no doubt_, she thought miserably. _I wonder if they'll fall through and land in the dungeon with us. I wonder if they would die if they fell so far. I'm lucky I didn't, I'm sure._

A voice roaring in a decidedly human voice made her struggle in an attempt to sit up, but she soon sagged back, not wanting to let go of her pack in order to do so. The orcs would probably kill him. If not, he would get out of there as soon as he could, if he knew what was good for him.

A shadow fell across Thrain's face, and the dwarf made a mumble of complaint, shifting in place. He was completely unrecognizable to anyone who had known him before, his beard and hair wild and tangled and far more white than black. In the sun he looked pale and thin as a skeleton, with the loose skin of one who'd lost a great deal of weight very suddenly. He had no bruises left, but his many scars and crooked nose told the tale of one who had been beaten many times.

"Master Dwarf," said a voice, far above, with an urgency that made Natia try again to sit up, this time using only one hand to hold her pack and the other to push herself backwards. Thrain didn't respond, and the man switched languages. "_Sait! Ikhillit, zirak khuzd!_" [3]

The shadow moved off of Thrain's face. He didn't seem to understand that someone had spoken to him in his own tongue, only enjoying the sun on his face once more. His eyes closed in peaceful repose.

_I think he's dying._ Natia felt detached as she watched him breathe deeply of sunlight and what little fresh spring air made its way down in the depths of Dol Goldur. He seemed relaxed, content even, to simply lie there with his limbs akimbo, wearing only a ragged pair of trousers and shirt that had probably once been a colour other than brownish grey. _If that man saw him,_ perhaps he's coming down here, after all. That thought made her renew her struggle. Slowly she managed to pull herself back so that she sat with the wall at her back. It was easier that way. Her pack fell off her lap and she yanked it back. It held only her axes, wrapped securely in her Warden armour, and empty potion vials; she had worn her much-battered plain leathers until they fell apart, and used the scraps to keep her feet wrapped up over the freezing winter nights. Her health poultices had all gone to healing herself and Thráin from torture sessions the first few days she had been in Dol Goldur.

A door opened far above, echoing loudly, and then another, closer, and a third, just beyond their bank of cells. A tall human mage wearing grey robes and a pointed hat, clutching a brightly lit staff in his right hand, hurried around the corner. He had long grey hair and a long grey beard tucked into his belt. He muttered a word that Nat didn't understand; the light on the staff changed colour, and the cell door wrenched off its hinges, peeling sideways as if great strong hands bent it in a direction it wasn't meant to go.

The mage didn't seem to see her, sitting in the shadows; all his attention was on Thráin, whose sunken eyes saw nothing that was truly there. At least he had stopped muttering. He stepped into the cell, bending to avoid knocking his hat against the low ceiling, and knelt by the elder dwarf's side. He put one hand on Thrain's brow and said urgently, "_Ikhillit, zirak khuzd!_"[3]

"_Mat...mat...rurukmi mat..."_ The dwarf's eyes fluttered open and shut, then snapped open and focused intensely on the mage's aged face. "_Dashatê! kunh dashatê?"_ [2]

"_Birashagammi, ma katabmi dashatzu kunh,_"[4] said the mage. "_Kulhu takhrâmzu, zirak khuzd?_" [5]

"_Takhrâmê? Ma katabmi...takhrâmê...takhrâmê...Thráin Throrul._"[6] Thrain trailed off and closed his eyes. For a moment he was still and silent, and Natia feared the worst had come at last; then he came to with a wild start and focused unerringly on the mage's worried face. "_Tharkûn! Hû astû. Astû ikhjimruki mat dashatê! Astû mat! Mahignit!_" [7]

"_Mahmagniti, Thráin Throrul. Hedan?_" [8]the mage asked, and Thrain reached with difficulty into his ragged shirt. From a hidden inner pocket he pulled an aged parchment folded around something small and metallic. The wrapped thing changed hands before Natia could get a good look at it, but from the size of it she imagined it could be a key. She hadn't seen it before—wait—perhaps she had? Had this been the small glinting thing he'd fiddled with before? Thus satisfied, Thráin sagged back, his eyes closing again.

"Give them to my son, _zabirasakhjami_," [9]he said, and then as his breathing slowed, "I am at peace. _Mukhuh targzu satarrigi sigin. Khamûna, Mahal tadnani astî, sanzigil tamkhihi astî._"[10]

"_Khamûna?_" the mage muttered, stroking Thrain's forehead. "I am no _khamûna_, Master Thráin."

"He's talking about me," Natia said, her voice a mere rasp. "He hasn't been this lucid in a long time. What did he say to you?"

The mage spun, obviously startled, raising his staff to throw light on her face. The brightness made her cringe and turn away, raising trembling hands to try and block it out. "Who are you?"

"M'name's Brosca. Who're you?" she said, when the spots had cleared from her vision. But the excitement was too much on top of months of malnourishment and the head-cold that had set in with the last frost and hadn't ever quite cleared up; she passed into a foggy half-sleep, head lolling back against the wall. He picked her up with gentle hands.

"I am Gandalf," he said, and mumbled something very unkind about orcs and their mothers. "You are far too light, Miss Brosca."

"My things!" she cried, and the mage mumbled something and bent again, slipping the straps of her pack over her arms. Then she was flying, bouncing up and down, cool air rushing past her and clogging her ears, her pack bouncing against her back.

"You will not stand in my way!" she heard the mage cry, a long way away, blue blue sky blinding in its brightness above her all around her.

Orcs shouted battle-cries and the world whirled around madly, dizzyingly; the mage spun around and slammed the butt of his staff into the head of the closest orc; it went down sprawling, tripping up the three who ran up right behind it. In the ensuing chaos the mage whirled about and ran like mad, clutching her to his chest as if she were a small child—and to him she probably was. He was taller than any human she'd ever met, though not quite so tall as the kossith, the race of horned giants to the north that adhered to a strict philosophy known as the Qun.

"Hold on a bit longer, Miss Brosca," he said in her ear, and jumped, and then they really were flying, floating like leaves on a suddenly strong wind. No, not like a leaf; they didn't twist and turn, but held a steady course, more like an arrow shot unerringly from a longbow. Her eyes teared up from the air rushing past, and she closed them, blocking out the searing bright of the sun and the biting cold of the wind.

There came the distant, challenging bellow of a dragon; the mage muttered something very uncomplimentary under his breath about someone named Smaug, and her eyes snapped back open. Her head reeled. She was in no shape to fight a dragon; her war-axes had not been cleaned or sharpened for months, and even if they had been, she had not the muscle to wield them nor even to stand on her own feet. Her thoughts felt clogged and heavy, as if pouring molasses through a soup-strainer, and she twitched feebly, trying to see what was going on. She saw only the glaring sun overhead, the mage's long grey hair, and the pointed hat he wore atop it. She had never seen such a hat. Was she falling or was it just getting smaller as she watched?

The light dimmed abruptly and she realized that she was no longer cradled in the mage's arm. Instead she lay on her back in a swirling greenish mist, strange shapes floating above her. She sat up without effort; apparently she was back to her full strength. And I'm back in my Warden armour, she thought, glancing over herself. The set I wore in the Final Battle. The set she'd had adjusted from the Grey Warden vault in Denerim. It had all the wounds she'd taken still: tears across her ribs where a genlock rogue had very nearly gutted her, punctures through her left shoulder where arrows had left that arm useless until Wynne had caught up with them.

Somewhere along the way she'd lost one boot, and she'd never found it again. It hadn't mattered very much at the time. Now the toes on her unshod foot squished uncomfortably in the ground, which felt like soggy forest loam. Something green and mostly wet oozed between her big toe and the next one; she stood up and shook the muck off her foot with a little moue of distaste. She'd always worn boots when not indoors; you never knew what could be on the ground in Dust Town, and on the surface there were tons of tiny little bugs called insects. In Orzammar there were no insects, only lichens and fungi and carnivorous tezpadam.

The green mist hadn't gone away when she stood. It swirled around her ankles in a wind she did not feel, blocking out her view of the ground, feeling not like regular fog at all. She turned slowly and saw the strange landscape stretched on in every direction. The sky above was a similar shade of green, though—was that a city, floating up there?

"_On dhea_,"[11] said someone from behind her. Brosca turned to see the speaker lift a hand in greeting: an elf, taller than most of the elves she'd known before, most likely an apostate mage due to the simple staff he carried in his other hand and the homely clothes he wore. He had no hair, which was odd to see on someone as young as he—except, was he young? She couldn't quite tell. He lowered his hand, looking concerned, when she didn't reply. "_Thu ea?_" [11]

"Sorry," she said, and coughed; though her body was as well as it had been when she'd last been in Thedas, her voice, apparently, was not. "I don't speak Elvish. Who're you?"

"My apologies," said the elf. "My name is Solas*. I have not met any dwarves in the Fade before."

"So this is the Fade." She looked at the Black City again. "Never thought I'd see it for myself."

"May I ask what you are doing here?" Solas asked politely. He folded both hands over the top of his staff and looked at her with a curious gaze. "It is a rare thing indeed to find a child of the stone here in the Fade."

"You can ask," Nat said, paused, then shrugged. "I don't know, really. I have been held captive by a foul shadow these past few months—could you tell me the date? It was nearly Firstfall, last I knew, but winter has come and gone again. Is it Guardian yet?"

"A foul shadow?" Solas murmured, his brow creasing in thought. As an afterthought, he added, "It is Cloudreach of the year 9:35 Dragon."

His grey eyes were penetrating and inscrutable, and she couldn't meet that gaze for long. 9:35? So long? She turned to survey the Fade-scape around them and discovered the Eluvian stood upon a nearby swell of land. Green tendrils of mist floated around it, but did not touch it directly.

"I came through that," she said, and pointed. "I was following—well, it was a mistake, I know that now, and I didn't really intend to I suppose. It just happened. Paragon Aeducan, the Hero of Ferelden, she could have saved him and she didn't."

Solas' eyes lit up when he saw the Eluvian. "An Eluvian! Please, continue."

"She—Morrigan, the woman I was following all those months—she told me that Flemeth wasn't even human, and she had to go prepare for 'what is to come.' She wouldn't tell me more. Then she touched the glass and stepped through it and I followed." She recalled the void between stars and shuddered. She couldn't begin to describe that place. "I don't think I went into the Fade then...she did say that the Eluvian could only take one more journey before it lost its enchantment, or something, so perhaps that's part of it; I rode the tail of her journey and came out somewhere completely different. It must be the other side of the world. The...The Necromancer has held me captive for...I thought it only a few months but it must have been five years."

She glanced back and saw that she was talking to nobody: the apostate had vanished. The Fade seemed suddenly dark and frightening, and Brosca felt very alone.

* * *

_Neo-Khuzdul taken from the Dwarrow Scholar's excellent dictionary and support documents and put together by my own inelegant skills. Elvhen taken from fenxshiral's Project Elvhen._

[1]_Khamûna, khamûna, astî lo ya hû_. Youth-lady, youth-lady, you are not with him.  
[2]_Rurukmi mat, mat...dashatê, dashatê, kunh dashatê? Dashatê, kunh astû? _I must keep it secret, (I) must...my son, my son, where (is) my son? My son, where (are) you?  
[3]_Sait! Ikhillit, zirak khuzd! _Psst! Continue to hold on/grasp, master dwarf!  
[4]_Birashagammi, ma katabmi dashatzu kunh _  
[5]_Kulhu takhrâmzu, zirak khuzd? _What (is) your outer name, master dwarf?  
[6]_Takhrâmê? Ma katabmi...takhrâmê...takhrâmê...Thráin Throrul. _My outer name? I know not...my outer name...my outer name...Thrain Thror's son.  
[7]_Tharkûn! Hû astû. Astû ikhjimruki mat dashatê! Astû mat! Mahignit! _Gandalf! It (is) you. You must give this object to my son! You must! Promise!  
[8]_Mahmagniti, Thráin Throrul. Hedan? _I promise, Thráin Thror's son. (The) key?  
[9]_zabirasakhjami_ Please. (Asking someone to do something formally - literally "would you grant?")  
[10]_Mukhuh targzu satarrigi sigin. Khamûna, Mahal tadnani astî, sanzigil tamkhihi astî._ May your beard continue to grow longer. (A traditional dwarven blessing.) Youth-lady, Mahal guide and mithril find you. ("good luck" - often used as a farewell)  
[11]_On dhea. Thu ea? _ Good morning. How are you?


	13. The Grey Wizard

_The relationship of dreamers to the Fade is complex. Even when entering the Fade through the use of lyrium, mortals are not able to control or affect it. The spirits who dwell there, however, can, and as the Chantry teaches us, the great flaw of the spirits is that they have neither imagination nor ambition. They create what they see through their sleeping visitors, building elaborate copies of our cities, people, and events, which, like the reflections in a mirror, ultimately lack context or life of their own. Even the most powerful demons merely plagiarize the worst thoughts and fears of mortals, and build their realms with no other ambition than to taste life._

_—From _Tranquility and the Role of the Fade in Human Culture_, by First Enchanter Josephus._

**_The Fade_**

"This is a strange place," Natia Brosca said aloud, and her words rippled through the green mist as she had tossed a pebble on water. The landscape twisted with her words, and suddenly she could see the Dragonbone Wastes as they had been many Ages ago, with dragons of all sizes lying down to die. Their corpses withered and faded away into skeletons and the land changed, earth swelling around them, clinging to the skeletons and creating deep swells and trenches as if it were the sea. The Eluvian stood unchanged as time warped its surroundings.

They had thought the Tevinters had brought the Eluvian here, to use the power left behind by the deaths of dragons. Clearly they were wrong; except, of course, this was the Fade, and anything was possible here. _The dreamer controls the dream_, Natia thought, and found herself in Dust Town once more, standing in the ruins that had once been her mother's house. Inexplicably the table remained, still covered with empty glass bottles and scraps of parchment with her and Rica's plans to improve the house, if they ever had the spare time and coin and willing hands to help. Kalah was not there, because dwarves did not dream, did not belong in the Fade, but something lifted a bottle of lichen ale to invisible lips and drank until it was empty, then flung the bottle at the wall where it thumped off and landed next to another.

Natia could almost hear her mother's drunken complaints. _You're worthless_, she'd say. _The only thing a woman has of worth is between her legs, and you don't even have that. At least your sister does her duty. Another casteless whore. That's all you're good for, whoring yourself out to those in the upper castes who don't need another heir._

"You have no power over me anymore, Kalah," she said, and turned to pick her way through the rubble left behind after the riots of Frostfall 9:31. "I am a Warden now, _mother_, not that you ever gave a shit about anything other than that sodding ale. I am not worthless. I am a warrior in my own right—didn't I win the Proving? Didn't I prove to all the sodding deep-lords that I was better than their best?"

She aimed a kick at a small stone and watched with some astonishment when it sailed out of sight. "I want out of here," she said, and the scene changed again: now she stood on one end of the bridge at Ostagar, with see-through archers firing scores of arrows into a great horde below and the Tower of Ishal a solemn guard on the other end. An insubstantial Alistair and Elyssa ran through her, neither looking as though they felt the urgency that would come when they realized what awaited them in the Tower. A stone catapulted from below hit the bridge with an impact that made them all (except their Fade visitor) fall flat.

"But I wasn't up here," she said, turning to look at the armies about to clash before her eyes. "I fought with the army down there—" and then she was there, wielding two plain steel axes and wearing simple leathers, the same set she'd been given by Beraht when she'd started working for him as an enforcer. All around her humans struggled and heaved against the vast darkspawn horde; three more appeared when one was cut down. On her left fought the lone elf Darrian Tabris, darting and slashing with his long daggers, who she hadn't known yet for more than a day; on her right the solid bear of a man named Grigor who had died on this day. A few feet away from them, Duran Aeducan swung his axe in wide, cleaving half-circles, clearing three darkspawn at once.

She hadn't let herself think very often of this day. It wasn't her finest moment. When it had become clear that most of the Wardens were dead and Loghain's army would not come, she had run as fast and as far as she could. She was a survivor, would always be a survivor: things like honor and glory meant nothing to a duster. Darrian had run with her; she'd had enough strength of character to stop and help him when he went sprawling over a shuddering man whose dying hands had clutched convulsively at Darrian's ankles. The soldier whose name she would never know died under Darrian before he got to his feet, and she would never forget the look on his face as they stumbled on to the Korcari Wilds. Duran had run behind them, defending them from the nearest darkspawn with great vicious swings of his two-handed battle-axe, the most experienced out of all of them in fighting darkspawn.

The horror of this day had given them all nightmares, until the horrors of werewolves and the walking dead and the Deep Roads had replaced them.

There they went: and now she could see the massive ogre that stormed the battlefield, heading unerringly for King Cailan. Valiant and brave, the human lord did not turn from his foe even as the ogre picked him up in one mighty hand, roared loud enough to be heard over the sounds of battle, and crushed him. And then the King fell, and—yes, Duncan ran to avenge him, and managed it, in the process losing his weapons.

Brosca hadn't seen his death the first time around. She couldn't make herself watch it this time. She fell to her knees and squeezed her eyes shut, clutching her ears, trying to block out the sounds of battle: death and gore and the screams of wounded and dying men and women and the shrieks of sharlocks and the murderous laughter of darkspawn and the bellow of an ogre—and was that the roar of a _dragon?_

She stood up, uncovering her ears, on a rise overlooking the battlefield, Loghain's army tensed to charge behind her as they watched the darkspawn overwhelm Cailan's forces. A tired old General shook his head, his mouth set in grim lines. Across the field, the Tower of Ishal burst into flame, too late for his army to do anything other than die themselves.

_"Sound the retreat,"_ he said, and his army turned away from the killing ground below. Seeing it from his perspective for the first time, she could almost understand: he had waited as long as he could for the signal to come, but when it did, it was too late. If he had sent them in, the darkspawn would have overwhelmed them just as easily.

It was a dragon, Brosca saw, circling lazily overhead, but not the Archdemon: this was Flemeth in her dragon form, diving at the Tower of Ishal, striking out with her feet—she rose, clutching a limp form in each foot, and turned towards the Korcari Wilds.

Below her, the darkspawn overran the Ferelden army at last, and a few straggling survivors ran as fast as their tired feet could carry them away from the monsters who stopped to feed on the dying men's flesh.

_"Awaken!"_ a voice like thunder roared; the ghosts of Ostagar faded away and she fell into true sleep at last.

* * *

"You have been dreaming for far too long, Miss Brosca," came a voice that was unfamiliar in its courtesy, and her eyes snapped open. She reacted automatically, tensing and reaching for weapons that were not there, before realizing her own weakness and remembering how far she had come since Ostagar.

Brosca lay on a simple bedroll far too big for her, bundled in a blanket that smelled of horse. Dawn looked about to break; red tinted the edges of the darkness above, which she could barely see through the canopy of trees, and the stars were fading. She blinked and turned her head towards the source of heat she could feel: a campfire grumbled in the middle of a firepit, nearly down to ash and embers. A horse, probably the owner of the blanket, dozed with his back leg half-cocked and his head lowered, unpicketed; a human with long grey hair and beard sat on a stump next to her, smoking from a long pipe, a pointy hat with a bent tip atop his head. As she watched, he blew out three perfect smoke rings, and then a ship made of smoke which sailed through the rings and up into the night sky.

"That's a neat trick," she said, or tried to, and ended up coughing instead. The human stooped and picked up a waterskin to hand to her. It was half-filled and she drank greedily, guzzling as much as she could, spilling water that tasted better than any she had drunk before over her chin and down onto the blanket. Remembering that this might be the only water they had, she stopped herself before she finished it, capping it and handing it back to him. "Who're you, and how did I get here, and where is here?"

*"Many are my names in many countries: Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkûn to the Dwarves; Olórin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten, in the South Incánus, in the North Gandalf; to the East I go not." The elderly man peered at her closely, eyes bright blue under bushy white brows. "You may call me Gandalf, or Tharkûn if you prefer: I am a Wizard."

"Never heard of that before," she said, falling back from where she had been supporting herself on trembling elbows. "Is that a sort of mage? I've met plenty of those. You sort of look like Irving. Are you with the Circle in Tevinter? You don't look like one of those...magis...mag...blood mages, Mister Tharkûn. Are you an 'postate? But we can't be in Tevin'er...cause there's no sodding orcs there, leastways I don't think there are...Necr'mancers, those there are, but we faced a few in fair Ferelden in our time. Us, the Grey, the _azure_ and_ argent_, it's _argent_ you know not silver, there's a difference, Senn...Seneshull tol' me so."

The Wizard looked mildly taken aback by this stream of words, and Brosca realized she was babbling. She _never_ babbled. It was not in her nature. "You drugged me," she accused; everything was turning grey and fuzzy, even the horse, which had woken and was now nosing hopefully at the saddlebags propped against the stump Gandalf sat upon. "Sodding mages, all alike, Neria tried to drug me once too but I was a duster then an' didn't trust any damn suntouched surfacer..." Her words trailed off in a murmur as her voice failed her.

"You need a true sleep," Gandalf started to say, but the grey turned to black before he could finish the sentence.

Brosca did not dream again, and when she next awoke she still lay upon the bedroll. Gandalf had gone, but his horse still grazed in their little clearing, still untethered and content to remain here. She lay still for a time, assessing herself for injuries: the arm which hadn't healed perfectly straight was a solid ache, warning of a storm to come; her back was one massive bruise; her hunger, of course, was ever-present.

The fire had burned down to mere embers, casting very little light. For a dwarf who had known the darkness of the deep underground, beyond the warmth and light of the magma rivers which flowed along the Deep Roads, it mattered little; the stars overhead were not hidden by clouds and thus provided enough illumination for her to see by. The moon was barely visible, a thin crescent which could be waning to a new moon or waxing to a full—she couldn't tell. Perhaps it was the fact that she'd never made a habit of looking at the stars, but she didn't recognize these ones, could find no familiar constellations.

The horse stepped forward a bit to reach another patch of grass and one hoof snapped a twig. Brosca jerked in surprise and realized that it hurt much less than she had anticipated to move. Carefully she pushed herself up onto her elbows. That was easy enough. She forced herself farther, until she sat up completely, all her muscles shaking with the effort. She couldn't sit up like this for long—maybe if she went over to that tree stump, she might rest her back against it. Now that she was free of Dol Goldur, Brosca wanted to enjoy it, breathe in fresh air and—Stone she stank, she needed a bath right away. She'd gotten far too used to modern conveniences, living in castles and the Warden quarters in Orzammar. In Dust Town she'd never bothered about bathing; everyone there smelled the same and only noble hunters bothered to clean the dirt from their skin.

She started pulling herself to the stump on her arms, not trusting her legs; she did not make it. Halfway there her arms gave out and she collapsed onto her belly, knocking her air out. The effort made her pass out again. She stirred slightly when Gandalf returned and fed her some broth, then she fell asleep again and did not stir until the jostling of the horse underneath her woke her fully.

They had moved on from the campsite sometime during her exhausted sleep. Now they both sat on the back of the horse; Gandalf had somehow managed to get both of them onto the saddle without waking her up, and she sat slumped against him, her legs dangling on either side of the horse and the wizard's surprisingly strong arms keeping her upright as they cantered along, her head pillowed on something soft. Rain fell from the treetops above them in an unsteady pitter-patter; luckily, Gandalf's hat was wide enough to protect them both from the worst of it.

"Where're...where're we?" she mumbled blearily. A particularly large droplet hit her on the house, having gathered from the brim of Gandalf's pointy blue hat, and she jerked. The horse, used to the goings-on of Wizards, did not let that bother him.

"We are on the Old Forest Road in Eryn Galen," said Gandalf, his voice coming from just above her head. She realized that the softness that had been cushioning her was actually his beard, as long as any dwarf's, and attempted to sit up without much success. _How long has my own beard grown?_ she wondered. It was customary for a dwarf in mourning to keep their beard shorn for as long as they mourned, and then let it grow out again; if they cut it short again, it was anathema. "Far from Dol Goldur, where you were held captive, Miss Brosca."

"You know my...Oh, yes, I did tell you," she remembered, nodding, settling back into his chest. For an old man, he had a solid chest, not the soft stomach that often came from those who spent their lives in sedentary lifestyles, as most mages did. He was surely an apostate, then. She set aside the beard issue for later. "The Old Forest Road? Never heard of it. Then again, I've never been in a forest before, really. Are you a friend of the Dalish elves, then? Is this the Brecilian Forest?"

"No, indeed it is not," said Gandalf. "It has long been called the Greenwood, though lately it is rather more murky than green, and some have begun to call it Mirkwood. It is the realm of King Thranduil of the wood-elves, who is not a friend to dwarf-kind. I would rather not tarry overlong."

"_King?_ of _elves?_ Well, this is surely not Tevinter," said Brosca, her eyebrows shooting up. "I was sure of it. I was sure only in Tevinter there could be a Necromancer of such power. By the Ancestors, where _am_ I?"

"I have just told you," said the Wizard, looking down at her with brow furrowed. "In Greenwood the Great, realm of King Thranduil, son of King Oropher who was slain in the Battle of Dagorlad. This is the Woodland Realm, home to the Sindarin Elves. It is a great forest, and we have far to go still to reach the Misty Mountains."

"Never heard of 'em," she said. "Are we near Tevinter at all? I'm from Orzammar myself, that's in the Frostback Mountains, on the border of Orlais and Ferelden, in the south. I've never heard of Dagorlad or Greenwood—any of it. Where on Thedas are we?"

"I have travelled Middle-earth for many a year and never have I heard mention of those places," said he, and glanced about briefly, slowing the horse to a walk. "Are you hungry? I have some food—you weren't awake to eat breakfast, only a bit of broth."

"I'm a Warden and a dwarf; I'm always hungry." She grimaced. Her stomach had shrunk terribly in her long imprisonment, and it ached at the thought of eating. "Middle-earth? How odd. I thought the world was called Thedas. That's what I always heard from the Shapers, anyway. Maybe you surfacers call it som'at different, and only this continent Thedas. Lessee...there's Ferelden and Orlais to the south, and north over the Waking Sea there's the Free Marches, and farther north'n that is the Tevinter Imperium an' Par Vollen an' Seheron, where the Qunari and the Tevinters are always fightin' over som'at."

"Here, take small bites and eat slowly," he said, and pulled a small cake wrapped in leaves out of one saddlebag, breaking off a piece to give to her. The inside was a creamy color, to contrast the brown outside. He rummaged about a bit and added a bit of hard cheese. "This is _lembas_: elven bread. A single bite would be enough for a Man, but you are a dwarf, so eat—_carefully_—until you are full. I have a skin of water as well, should you thirst. I do not know any of the lands you mentioned, nor the people. Are they Man, Dwarf, or Elf?"

"Orzammar's a dwarven thaig, I thought everyone knew of it," Brosca said. She nibbled at the cheese for some time, then asked for water, which he obligingly passed over. She drank deeply and returned it to him and explained about the Tevinters and their slavery, alienages, the Dalish elves, and the scarcity of surface dwarva. "Why don't you know this? Are you a hermit or som'at?"

"I shall have to consult a few maps when we reach our destination," he said after a thoughtful pause. "I believed I knew every land on Middle-earth, but clearly there is more to it."

"And where is that? Where're we going?" She took a bite of the bread, which was very light and sweet and melted on her tongue. _Sten would love this. So would Neria, for that matter. Morrigan would scorn it._

Then she recalled how she'd arrived, which she had successfully managed to block from her mind hitherto: the Eluvian, which had sent her through all space—an artifact of Arlathan, which had sent her through all space and—Morrigan, who had said the Eluvian had one journey left, and she'd gone through anyway. There was an _elven king_ here. When had the elves last had a King of their own? "Oh, by the sodding Ancestors. That sodding suntouched rock-licking mud splasher. _Fuck_ing _Stone_. Arlathan. Arlathan. Somehow I've come to Arlathan. It went wrong and that bloody Eluvian sent me here instead of wherever that cloudgazer Witch of the Wilds went—" she went on to curse Morrigan, her mother, her mother's tryst with a bronto and three greased nugs, and Morrigan's warnings of 'things to come.' "What year is it?"

"Those are some interesting epithets," said Gandalf, eyebrows raised. "We are headed to the Last Homely House of Imladris, or Rivendell in the common tongue, where Elrond Peredhel rules. Arlathan...I think I may have heard that word before. We will consult Lord Elrond's maps and library, and Erestor—he is a veritable fount of knowledge. It is the year 2850 of the Third Age."

"By the sodding _Stone_," Brosca said again, and then fell silent. While they had been eating, the horse had slowed to an ambling walk that did not jostle her at all; now the wizard urged him on to a much faster pace.

They galloped on through the rest of the day and the night that followed, a pace that no horse in Ferelden that Brosca had ever met could sustain without killing itself. Perhaps the Wizard used a spell to keep his horse at this hard pace; Wynne had done that often enough for them, clearing the false-oxygen from their muscles and soothing their pounding hearts until they were able to run all day wearing armour without tiring and then fight darkspawn that tried to startle them. She didn't ask—it wasn't important.

Through the night Gandalf held his staff up to light their way, slowing his horse just enough to keep him from fouling in unseen holes. Brosca fell asleep multiple times, but the horse's movement seemed to constantly wake her up. Towards dawn they slowed again as the trees thinned, and just as the sun crested the horizon they came out of the treeline and Brosca could see tall mountains rising ahead of them, more magnificent than the Frostbacks.

"We are clear of the Woodland Realm now," said Gandalf, sounding quite grim indeed. "But now we must be careful: there are Orcs about, and they dislike Wizards even more than they dislike Dwarves."

"That means no fire, I suppose." Brosca sighed, glum. "Got any more of that _lembas_ stuff? It tasted delicious."

"I do indeed." The light on his staff dimmed to darkness and he stopped a few paces away from the bank of a river. It sang ahead of them, before a broad stretch of valley between them and the mountains, wide and fast-flowing. "That is the Anduin River, which flows from the northern Misty Mountains all the way to the Bay of Belfalas, in the Great Sea, Belegaer. It is the longest river in Middle-earth, and quite treacherous. We shall cross it at the Old Ford, and from there make our way to the High Pass in the Misty Mountains."

He dismounted, and Brosca almost slid off herself before managing with the barest strength the cheese and lembas had given her to hold on to the horse's tangled black mane, leaning heavily on his neck. The horse, startled, threw back its head and danced sideways a step. Gandalf caught his bridle with one hand and pulled his head down, murmuring to him in a melodious tongue that Brosca had never heard before. He calmed, and the Wizard helped her dismount as well.

"I should have introduced you earlier, but you are awake now," he said, still holding the bridle in one hand. This close, Brosca could tell his bridle had no bit, unlike the few horses she'd seen in the Ferelden bannorn. She imagined the Dalish had something similar for their halla, the deer that pulled their aravels. The horse was a dark bay with black points, which she had already noticed; he had a small white off-centre snip that she hadn't seen before. "Miss Brosca, this is Nórima, who has borne me well for nigh on seven years. Nórima, this is Miss Brosca, my companion to Imladris."

Brosca felt silly talking to a horse, but clearly he meant a lot to Gandalf, so she inclined her head gravely and said, "_Atrast vala_, Nórima. Thank you for carrying us so swiftly this far." The horse nickered and lipped at her hair. She ducked away, scowling, and overbalanced, nearly falling in the river; instead she landed with a painful thud on her bottom on the grassy bank.

"Ow! My ass—sodding horse, that hurt." She glared up at the bay, who looked down at her with an expression of pure surprise, as if to say _Why are you all the way down there?_

Gandalf, the bugger, chuckled softly. "I think he would like his own supper, Miss Brosca, and perhaps a drink, if you could move out of his way."

"Sodding wizards."

* * *

*direct quote from _The Two Towers_  
lembas: Sindarin for 'waybread'; a single bite is enough to fill a Man's stomach for an entire day. However Brosca is a Warden as well as a dwarf, and so she needs more.


	14. A Hero's Death

_Join us brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry out the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day, we shall join you._

**_9:30 Dragon, Denerim_**

Blight-clouds hung heavy in the sky, red and threatening, obscuring the weak winter sun. Through them a dark shape flew, bellowing rage and conquest, an eerie song that Called to all of the Tainted. Below a horde of darkspawn surged, all moving to the mental command of their Tainted God, striking here and there at the city's defenses.

Urthemiel did not wait long. Before the armies of humans, dwarves, and elves reached the hill overlooking Denerim, the Archdemon dove, screaming fire and death. Dozens of arrows from the few remaining defenders launched into the air; some of them fell short, and the rest bounced off of his scales. A brave apostate who had thrown his lot in with the city's defenders threw a crackling bolt of lightning, enraging Him when it hit. He dove again and came up with that mage in his claws, tearing him in half and then dropping him like a stone.

"Maker," Elyssa Cousland breathed. She, Alistair, and Riordan stood atop a hill overlooking the city. Below them was a vast roiling mass of Taint; the Song had never been stronger. Riordan, the oldest of them, seemed the most affected, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. Their blood hummed in their veins, to the same crooning Call.

_join us_  
_join us_

Natia Brosca stood in her new Warden leathers, the same suit they'd retrieved from the Grey Warden compound in Denerim only a couple weeks before, Duran Aeducan beside her in plate armour. The Aeducan shield still hung on his back, but he gripped his sword in its sheath, knuckles white. His other hand held Natia's with the same fierce intensity he'd gone about their whole relationship. His eyes were trained on the Blight clouds they could see overhead.

"I suppose I won't be dying in the Deep Roads after all," Nat murmured, if only to break the silence. She attempted a smile but her lips trembled. Duran's steady gaze turned toward her, and he released his sword to cover their joined hands.

"Natia, you will not die today—I will not allow it." He squeezed her hand briefly before going back to his sword. He never did use the shortened version of her name, though nearly everyone did. "You wouldn't leave me to face your sister alone, would you?"

"No, of course not, you wouldn't survive her wrath," she said very seriously, and looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. His hair and beard were freshly done in the traditional Aeducan battle braids, warpaint on his upper face making him look like a Paragon from centuries ago.

He wasn't a berserker, even after trying to learn from Oghren—he just didn't have the temperament for it. But he was a solid fighter, able to withstand heavy attacks and deal out quite a bit of damage. In comparison, she was a lithe, swift rogue, dashing in and dealing quick blows with her twin hand-axes Aodh and Veshialle before running out of range of her enemy's weapons. Her Warden leathers were just enough to withstand glancing blows, not like Duran's heavy plate, which could turn aside a direct hit from any blade. The best defense against a crushing weapon such as a warhammer, on the other hand, was to not be there at all; she was very good at doing that.

The Wardens had been split up into pairs throughout the gathered armies. It was understood that if any of them got to the Archdemon, that Warden would try to kill him, though they were all hoping Riordan got there first: he had been the one to volunteer, after all. Natia and Duran stood with the dwarven contingent, somewhere near the front, behind the double ranks of berserkers.

The signalman flashed his lanterns, a rapid sequence of red and yellow light. They clung to each other's fingers for another moment before letting go, Duran settling his shield on his arm and Natia hefting her waraxes. She kissed the hilts. "Stone guide you to their knees and their throats."

Her beloved leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, then slid the visor of his helmet down. It protected his mouth and jaw, but not the area around his eyes, which appeared far fiercer in the shadows of his helm. "Ancestors, keep her safe," he muttered, and she was sure she wasn't meant to hear it.

The lanterns flashed again, three times in quick succession, yellow-red-yellow. They charged, shouting in ancient dwarven, the only words most dwarva still knew: battle-cries and insults. The berserkers worked themselves into a frenzy and devolved into mad screams as the battle-lust came upon them, and perhaps taken by something similar, Nat let out a wordless scream herself.

They all knew the parts they had to play. The Legion of the Dead were at their best, of course, having spent much more time fighting in a cohesive unit. The main dwarven army wasn't terrible, though most of them had never seen the sky before coming up from Orzammar mere weeks before. The Dalish rained arrows on the enemy, their Keepers leading units with powerful displays of magic, their warriors closing in flashes of whirling steel and ironbark. The mages from the Tower, shepherded by templars, had gathered in groups to deal long-distance damage, and a storm of fire and lightning wrought havoc on part of the horde. All this Natia knew, but once they closed on the enemy she saw nothing but blood and heard nothing but her own ragged breathing and pounding heartbeat

After the initial clash, the two armies locked forces, front lines pushing and shoving at each other, weaving back and forth. The Wardens knew their duty. The Archdemon bellowed above, circling the city, and they peeled away from the main force of battle, heading to the highest positions they could find. They had to bring the beast down, ground him so that they could kill him.

Riordan, the Orlesian Warden from Jader, had volunteered to be the one to deal the killing blow. None of them had argued. Privately, Darrian had informed her that if Riordan failed, he would take the first chance he had to try to kill Urthemiel himself. Natia had told him that it wasn't going to happen. Any of them would be glad to give their lives to take down the Archdemon; it was their duty. But if it came down to Duran or herself, she was going to do it herself, and damn the consequences; Orzammar needed Duran, and she could not live in a world where he did not.

She wasn't what anyone would consider brave. She was a thief and a thug, and hadn't felt anything other than terrified when she'd run from the battle at Ostagar. She had grown a lot since that day, she felt, not only physically (she hadn't even reached her majority) but also in character. She wasn't brave, but she would do her duty, by the Wardens and by Orzammar.

"I thought Morrigan would be here by now," Nat said, joining Elyssa, Alistair, and Daylen on the steps of the Chantry. A bird shot towards them, landing gracefully as Neria; a wound in one arm had left her even more pale than normal. The others were unharmed but for bruises. Daylen murmured a restorative spell and the injury healed, skin crawling over open flesh and blood returning to her cheeks. "Wasn't she scouting, or something?"

"Haven't seen her at all," Elyssa said, turning thoughtfully to look at Alistair. "Have you?"

"No. Last I saw her was...last night." His brow creased, and his eyes flickered uneasily. "I think—"

"There's no _time_ to talk," said Darrian, materializing from nowhere, a bloody but grinning Zevran at his back; both elves looked uninjured. "Let's go. Riordan's already up there—"

There came a terrible bellow of pain and rage from the Archdemon, and the darkspawn that hadn't already been slain froze in place for a moment before attacking more viciously. The Wardens all cried out, trying fruitlessly to block their ears, a spike driven through their minds. They saw a body plummet from Urthemiel, disappearing into the roil of the battlefield; the Archdemon labored to stay alight. It didn't manage it, landing heavily on the battlements.

"Sodding rock-licker, nug-humping son of a—" Natia cursed. Duran touched her shoulder briefly and she fell silent.

"You will be remembered, Riordan," Elyssa intoned solemnly, then broke into a fierce snarl. "Let's go kill an archdemon."

_Whyever did I agree to this?_ Natia thought wildly, clinging like a limpet to the back of a heaving Archdemon, feeling sick at the Taint that coursed through its body and glistened on its scales. Her axes were sunk into its neck, but they hadn't done more than annoy it. The Song called her, louder than ever, entreating her to lay down her arms, to take them up in defense of Him, to let go and fall to the parapets, to jump and fall off to the city far below. She clung on grimly, her wrists aching, her whole body a bruise from being tossed around on its back. She had no memory of getting there, no memory of the battles in which she'd lost all her knives: only a dim recollection of darkspawn attacking and falling, a bow breaking under her foot, yanking an arrow that had pinned her foot to the ground, rain and blood mixing together to slosh around uncomfortably in her boots,

Then Duran appeared, his helmet and shield gone, holding his sword in one hand and gripping one of Urthemiel's spikes in the other. His warpaint had smeared and his beard was all a-tangle, and somehow his hair had come out of its war-braids and fell about his face in a most undignified, un-Duran Aeducan way. But he was still the most beautiful thing Natia had ever seen.

He used a dagger like a climbing-spike, stabbing downwards and enraging the Archdemon even further as he made his way up. He straddled the beast's neck behind her, then hugged her so fiercely she thought for a moment her ribs would break. "Atrast nal tunsha, salroka," he murmured in her ear. "Forgive me."

"You're full of sod," she started to say, but then he lifted her free of the Archdemon's writhing and tossed her down to the battlements, where most of the other Wardens held off darkspawn. She landed hard, skidding on her side and thumping to a halt against a loose stone, scrambling to her feet as soon as she could, ignoring the pain of her landing.

"No, you sodding—!"

It was too late. As she watched helplessly, terrified and proud and filled with love and rage and despair all at once, he raised his sword and swung it: once, twice, again. Urthemiel bellowed long and low, thrashed to try and get him off, failed, spread his injured wings to try to take off.

Light encased Duran Aeducan as he plunged his sword two-handed into the base of the Archdemon's skull. The light became a beacon, lancing straight up, parting the Blight-clouds, and spread like a thunderclap across the sky.

Weaponless, for her axes still spiked the Archdemon's neck, she walked slowly towards the massive body. Duran slid off, now boneless, the strength gone from his limbs. She dropped to her knees beside him and pulled him into her lap so he half-sat against her, his plate armour making him twice as heavy. Sweat had made his hair cling to his neck and forehead, she realized, and smoothed it carefully. He had always had lighter hair than his brothers, like his mother the late Queen of Orzammar, though in face he resembled his father more than them. His eyes were like the Stone itself. They did not close until she pressed them shut; he had breathed his last before she reached him.

"Atrast tunsha. Totarnia amgetol tavash aeduc. Partha, salroka. You have won us our victory."

"So this is how it happened," said Solas. "The darkspawn horde sought to overwhelm all Thedas, but for a few mighty warriors: the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. I shall remember your sacrifice, Prince Aeducan, Hero of Ferelden."

"This was both the worst and best day of my life," said Natia, standing; her ghostly self remained huddled over Duran's corpse, too exhausted even to weep. She remembered now that she had lived for months since this day, had survived her lover's death, would survive for many more years. The battlefield faded around them as she turned away from the memory of the darkspawn horde's final stand, turned away from the memory of Daylen and Darrian and Elyssa and Alistair and Neria all uniting to defend them when she did not raise arms to defend herself.

"You're here again," said Solas with some surprise. He studied her closely. "How is it that a dwarf whom I have never met can find me twice in the Fade? You are no spirit."

"No, I am no spirit," she agreed, and shrugged disconsolately. "I do not know. Where I am...I do not think there is a Fade at all. I went through an Eluvian, you see, and since then..." she trailed off, not wanting to describe those long, lonely weeks of torture and starvation.

"No Fade? Where is it that you are? I know who you are now—the Hero's Lover, from all the tales; where are you? It is said that you vanished from Orzammar years ago," he said, leaning forward to rest his weight on his strange and primitive-looking staff. "I have walked this world for many years, and never have I found a place without the Fade, though many times have I stepped through tears in the Veil."

"I do not know where I am, but when, perhaps, I do know: the Eluvian sent me through time and space and the only term with which anyone has any familiarity is Arlathan. I think I am on Thedas, perhaps somewhere in Tevinter before the Imperium rose, in the early days of Arlathan." Brosca shrugged again and sat down on the moss-soft ground, though it hadn't been that soft a moment ago when she'd been standing on it. The Fade responds to the will of the person within. She had read that somewhere, once, or heard it from one of the Circle mages, or perhaps Neria. "I do not know if I will ever return home."

"You are in the time of Arlathan," Solas repeated, his eyebrows shooting up. "In the _early days_ of Arlathan."

"I don't know what else it could be," she said. "I'm now travelling with a Wizard who calls himself Gandalf and Tharkûn and Mithrandir—different names for different people—and he's never heard of Thedas or Tevinter or anything, but he has heard mention of Arlathan...he doesn't remember where, though. What?"

Solas had gone very still, his eyes sharp and intent on her. "_Mithrandir_...Did he give you any other names?"

"Incantous, or sommat like it, and Olórin. He's a nice fellow, for an old man. Oh yeah, we were travelling through a forest which he called the Woodlan Realm of King Thranduil, of the Elves: an Elvish kingdom! Isn't that incredible? And now we go to Rivendell, where I intend to find out where exactly I am. I don't recognize any of the landscape."

"You would not," he said softly. "Olórin. Long has it been since I have heard that name. You have gone far indeed, Warden."

When Brosca awoke, she remembered nothing beyond that, though she was sure there had been more said.

_**Late spring, TA 2850, the Old Forest Road in the Valley Anduin:**_

"The Old Forest Road," Gandalf said, "or the Men-i-Naugrim, as it is known to the elves, is an old Dwarvish road. It's been here since the Second Age at least. The eastern end leads to impassable marshes where the paths have long been lost; the western end runs, in the mountains, through the High Pass, and past Rivendell it crosses the Bruinen river and goes all the way to Hobbiton and Michel-delving in the Shire, more than three hundred miles west of the Misty Mountains. From there it's another two hundred or so miles to the Blue Mountains, where the Longbeards once of Erebor have settled their halls in the ruins of Belegost these past fifty years."

They had made camp the evening before—well, Gandalf had, as Brosca still had not the strength to help—after crossing the Old Ford, which looked dangerously close to collapse. The river rushed along south behind them, strong and furious, stretching farther in both directions than any river she'd seen before. The Anduin Valley was not much of a valley, merely a wide stretch of land between the Greenwood in the east and the Misty Mountains in the west, dipping shallowly to meet the great Anduin River. Fields of windswept grass dominated the valley, in between patches of mostly melted snow; sparse clouds sped through the bright blue sky, caught in a strong headwind.

The Wizard helped her onto the saddle of his swift-footed horse, and fixed the saddlebags so that they somewhat supported her legs. He bent to the task of dousing the embers of their fire and recovered a few smallish potatoes, which he'd kept baking in the embers since the fire had died some hours hence. Presently he stood and mounted Nórima behind her, handing her the potatoes and gathering the reins in one hand, keeping his staff held upright in the other.

"Erebor! Thráin said he hailed thence," Brosca said as they started off at a comfortable pace. "He said he was King, but then why was he a prisoner in Dol Goldur, so far easterly of his Halls?"

Gandalf glanced at her in surprise, then halted Nórima and looked to the Greenwood, turning more southerly than where they had emerged. "So! there lies the King under the Mountain," he said softly, and shook his head. "O! for the follies of dwarves!"

"What do you mean by that?" Brosca asked. She shifted, trying again to get comfortable in the saddle: her long weeks of near-starvation had left her gaunt, and her bones grated against each other and ached when she sat, though they didn't hurt as much as they did when upon the hard-packed earth. Her joints creaked and snapped whenever she moved.

She had already consumed a small meal from Gandalf's rations, after she'd first woken up, but her hunger had not been satisfied. She didn't want to overeat and then throw it all back up—she'd seen that happen when dwarves who'd eaten too little for too long ate a large, hearty meal. The potatoes Gandalf surely meant to share between them, though when she offered one to him he told her they were for her to recover her strength. She nibbled on them as the wizard spoke. They were unseasoned and a little overdone, but they still tasted fantastic.

"For a time after settling in the Blue Mountains, Durin's Folk grew in prosperity and numbers, and Thráin was content to rule his people. He had a son—I cannot recall his name..." Gandalf trailed off, as if hoping she knew this. She shook her head and he continued: "Many years later, Thráin grew older and he became restless. His desire to reclaim his kingdom of the Lonely Mountain of Erebor grew. Nine years ago, he and several others left their dwelling and journeyed into Wilderland. They were not seen for many months, and when the group eventually returned to the Blue Mountains, Thráin was not among them: he had disappeared whilst they slept in the eaves of Mirkwood. They searched in vain for him for days, but he could not be found. Nothing has been heard of him hence: until now, when I chanced upon you and he by looking into the depths of a great pit."

"Why do you claim that as folly?" Brosca asked, after swallowing her potato. "It is not folly to yearn for the home of your people back again—and how did they lose it, in the first place? What left them wandering?"

Gandalf turned Nórima away from Mirkwood and urged him onward again; now they quickened to a long, loping almost-gallop that couldn't rightly be called a canter. At first his hooves thundered on the ground, but as they crossed from hard earth to softer grass, they muted, and at last the wizard spoke.

"In the year 2770 of the Third Age, the dragon Smaug descended on the Lonely Mountain and ravaged it: he destroyed the kingdom and claimed it as his own, along with all the treasures and gold within. The survivors began a long, homeless exile..." and Gandalf told her of the fall of Thror to the gold-sickness, how he'd ventured into Moria alone and had not survived; how Thráin had thus begun the War of the Dwarves and Orcs, which resulted in the death of his youngest son, and how Dain Ironfoot had ended the war by the slaying of their leader, called Azog; of the dwarves' long wandering, whence they settled in the hills of Dunland for many years before finally finding their way to the ruins of Belegost in Ered Luin.

"A terrible tale," said Brosca, and they fell silent for awhile as they continued down the Old Forest Road. Eventually the drumbeats of Nórima's hooves lulled her to sleep, where she dreamt of dragon's fire and ruin.

She awoke when Nórima changed pace, slowing to a walk; she saw that Gandalf looked about alertly, his eyes flashing in every direction. The horse's hoofbeats sounded oddly muted, and she noticed that the wizard's staff glowed softly, though that glow was only barely visible under the bright sunshine. She did not say anything, for if the wizard had muted even the horse's hooves, then surely her voice would be too loud. After a time of the horse walking quietly, Gandalf relaxed, his staff dimming; he urged Nórima back to a ground-eating lope and the sound returned to his hooves.

"What happened?" she asked, speaking none-too-loudly, just in case.

"There are agents of the Necromancer trying to follow us."

His voice was grim, and he said no more on the subject, no matter how she pressed; she decided to ask about something else that had been bothering her. "What did Thráin say when he spoke to you? He said something about his son?"

"Indeed!" Gandalf seemed gladdened by the change of subject. "He entrusted me with a map and a key—to what, I am not sure. He wanted me to give them to his son, whom he loved very much. He spoke in Khuzdul; I take from this that you have yet to begin your instruction in this ancient language of the dwarves?"

"I've never heard of it before," she said, scowling. "How do_ you_ know it?"

"Oh, I know many things." Gandalf, clearly amused, did not bother hiding his smile. "You are very young indeed, Miss Brosca. Do you wish to learn this language?"

"Yes, definitely, if you would teach it."

And thus they spent the two days travelling across the Valley Anduin, with Gandalf teaching her Khuzdul: he was a strict teacher, letting her move on to a new word only when he was sure she had the pronunciation of the first completely correct. On the second evening, they made camp in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and Gandalf announced that the next day they would start through the High Pass.

* * *

Atrast (nal) tunsha: a formal farewell. May translate to "may you always find your way in the dark."  
Totarnia amgetol tavash aeduc: words of a dwarven rite for the dead  
partha: peace  
salroka: friend, one at my side  
_*note on dwarva beards: in Origins the female dwarva didn't have beards, but it is possible for female Cadash Inquisitors to have a beard, so I'm going with it._


	15. Across the High Pass

_**This chapter caused me difficulty. The next one should be better (and longer!). I'm going with one Glorfindel, since that's what Tolkien implied, though it was never outright stated that the Glorfindel who killed the balrog was the same Glorfindel who lived in Rivendell during the latter Third Age.**  
_

_After the fall of Ost-in-Edhil in SA 1697, Elrond led the Elves of Eregion north and founded the refuge of Imladris—Rivendell. The settlement subsequently headquartered many of those in the Last Alliance, assisted in the battles against Angmar, and housed Isildur's heirs through many generations.  
__-"Rivendell," _The Atlas of Middle-Earth (Revised Edition)_,__ by Karen Wynn Fonstad_

_**Late spring, TA 2850, the Misty Mountains:**_

"Are you sure there's no other way across?" Brosca surveyed the rock-strewn path ahead of them with unease. Wind howled through the High Pass, clearly strong enough to knock her over if she hadn't been secured to Nórima's saddle. As it was the middle of spring, snow still coated the surrounding peaks, and the air felt like ice in her lungs. After a lifetime spent in the magma-heated chambers of Orzammar, she did not like being cold; she had been too worried about darkspawn to complain about the cold in the Korcari Wilds, but she'd hated crossing the Frostbacks, and now she didn't even have any fat to protect her bones from the chill.

"Quite sure," said Gandalf, who had decided to walk behind Nórima instead of riding up the steep path to the Pass. They had ridden hard to get there, and he felt that his loyal mount was due a rest from bearing the both of them. "There are four ways to cross the Misty Mountains, and the other three are not any better: one is the Redhorn Pass, which is very similar to this one, only less well-traveled; then there is the Gap of Rohan, which would take us far out of our way to the south; and there is Moria, once a kingdom of the dwarves, now home to orcs and worse things that live in dark places."

"Moria...That's where that war you were talking about was fought, wasn't it?" Brosca grimaced at the barren grey rock of the High Pass and with slight pressure from her knees urged Nórima forth. His hooves clattered on the stone loudly, though he wore no iron shoes as most Ferelden horses did. "The War of Dwarves and Orcs. Didn't the dwarves _win_ that? Why do orcs still remain?"

"In the dwarvish tongue, it is called _Khazad-dûm_. The Battle of Azanulbizar was a victory won by terrible losses: the dwarves lost so many that they had to be burned where they lay on the field. After the battle, Thráin wished to enter Moria and reclaim it, but the dwarves of Durin's folk refused, saying that they had honored Durin's memory by fighting, and that this was enough. They feared Durin's Bane remained still in the depths of Moria, and they feared entering while it still dwelt there—as far as I know, it does to this day."

Gandalf planted his staff when they reached a bend in the path and surveyed the land behind them, stretched out like a great map: they stood high enough up that the peak of the Lonely Mountain, wreathed in clouds, could barely be seen at all beyond the dark expanse of Mirkwood. A band of orcs ranged across the northern end of the Anduin Valley, raising plumes of dust behind them that streamed away southeast in the strong wind. No other sign of life could be seen in the Valley, though to the south they could see a gleam that could be a city in the far, far distance. "Now: repeat that last phrase to me?"

"I'd like to get going sometime today," she said, but realizing he wasn't going anywhere until she answered, let his horse halt and drop his head to snatch at bright green nubs of new grass poking from a layer of snow. "All right, all right, fine. _'Isul kuthgu thaigu tasgiriki uthak_...uhh..._kataba bahaha kasut.'_ What's Durin's Bane?"

"Durin's Bane is a terrible evil, a servant of the first Dark Lord. You're not quite right; it's '_Izul kuthu thaiku tasgiriki uthak kataba buhâhu kusut._' And what is the translation?" He started walking again, this time taking the lead. His words became harder to make out over the wind, and she had to lean forward in the saddle to hear. Her still-weak muscles gave out, and she leaned on Nórima's neck, trusting him to follow his master on sure feet. The stallion did not nearly have the smooth gait of the previous days, but he picked his way carefully and did not stumble; her legs had been strapped securely enough to the saddle that the occasional lurch did not unbalance her.

"Only when the mine collapses does the miner know his true friends," she said, then repeated herself more loudly when he turned to indicate that he hadn't quite heard.

"Good! And what does it mean?" he called over his shoulder, his staff raising small clouds of stone-dust whenever he planted it.

"This language is really formal," Brosca stalled, trying to remember what he had told her not that long before. She'd never been formally educated in anything other than weaponry, except perhaps trap-making, but that didn't really count as she'd figured those out on her own. She ventured a guess: "I'm only a brand, when would I ever need to know how to approach a master miner? They'd know I'm not mining caste."

"Well, you wouldn't use that particular phrase to approach a master miner," said Gandalf. "It is a common phrase: it means that in times of trouble one learns the true nature of one's friends."

"Oh, yeah," she nodded, remembering. "That does make more sense."

"You haven't used that term before," he said, catching himself with his staff when his foot slipped on a patch of loose gravel. "'Brand.' What does that mean?"

She lifted a hand to her cheek, touching the brand that had labelled her a criminal since birth. Sometime during her incarceration, a whip had caught her face; she now had a scar running from one eyebrow to curl around her jaw, cutting right through the brand. Luckily, the lash hadn't hit her eye. Before Dol Goldur, she hadn't really minded her brand that much; she was a Warden, with all the respect that afforded in a post-Blight world. But here, there didn't seem to be any Wardens. Any dwarva she met would know her as a base-born criminal only good for sweeping streets or spreading her legs.

It had been her identity her entire life, until she took the Grey, and being a Warden meant nothing if she had no darkspawn to fight. If they didn't know what the tattooed brand on her cheek meant—no. No, all dwarva knew what the casteless were, they _had_ to know. She didn't know what she would do if no one knew what her brand meant.

"You're not a dwarf," she said at last, lowering her hand and pressing it into her leg as a white-knuckled fist. "You would not understand."

Perhaps sensing that she was not willing to be pressed on this matter, Gandalf did not say any more. They kept to a walk, and Brosca guessed that with the rate they were going, they would have to spend at least one night in the Pass. Perhaps once they had stopped climbing, they would move faster, though she did not think so; it would be very easy to make a wrong move and slip off the path if they did not walk cautiously enough. If she was on her feet she would never fall—that is, if she was at her full strength, she would never fall. But she was not at full strength, nor even half strength, and so had to rely on a horse. She couldn't feel the Stone through a horse as she could through her boots.

_If only Oghren could see me now. He'd laugh his sodding arse off. Then he'd offer me a drink. Ancestors, I would even take a dram of lichen ale. I hope these elves have something decent to drink—a dwarf gets tired of drinking water all the time!_

The sun rose high behind them as Gandalf continued coaching her in Khuzdul, and slowly the path levelled out. By the time midday arrived, Brosca was sweaty from exertion and shivering from the cold, and when they had finished lunch the wizard wrapped an extra cloak around her before they started onwards.

In the late afternoon, clouds swept in from the north, bringing with them a chill wind, and as darkness fell a freezing rain fell with it. The crack in the mountain that they had found to camp in for the night wasn't much shelter; rain blew in on gusts of wind and there was no fuel for a fire. Nórima didn't fit, so Gandalf took off his tack and talked to him softly in a strange tongue, after which the horse meandered off and Gandalf brought his tack inside the little cave with them.

"What w-was that you were sp-speaking?" asked Brosca, her body wracked with great shudders. She had curled up on herself, wrapped completely in Gandalf's now-soaked cloak, but she couldn't seem to get warm. The lack of a fire didn't help.

"In the tongue of Men, it is called Grey-elven, but the rightful name is Sindarin," said Gandalf, putting Nórima's tack down against one wall, and examined her closely. "I am no healer, Miss Brosca, but thankfully we are not far from Rivendell. There resides Lord Elrond, one of the most skilled healers I have ever known, and Sindarin is the language of his people."

"W-wonderful," said Brosca, teeth chattering. "An-another language t-to learn."

"You wish to learn Sindarin?"

"I'm n-no great scholar, Gandalf, but if I want to f-f-find anything in th-that library you mentioned, I have to be able to read what it's written in," she pointed out, rubbing her arms and chest to try and warm herself. The wet of her clothes and cloak sapped all her body heat. "Stone, it's c-cold. You're a wizard, can't you warm us up?"

"I can, but I would need something to burn," he said in reply. "Fire cannot live on air alone."

"Oh! I've g-got an idea." Brosca sat up and took off her pack, which she had been keeping on her back since she'd woken up in Mirkwood. Her war-axes she set aside with care, especially Aodh, which though hot to the touch always made the air feel colder around her when she held it. Sandal, for all his skill in enchantments, had not been able to get rid of that strange effect. Still in her pack was the folded Warden leathers which she hadn't worn for what seemed an age. She loosened them up by shaking them out.

"I'd appreciate if you c-could turn your back a m-minute while I change clothes," she said to Gandalf, who immediately turned to the tack and busied himself by rubbing down Nórima's well-made saddle and headstall.

Somehow, her Warden armour had not gotten wet in the deluge. She stripped off her old, wet clothes, which had once been soft and fine but had now become tattered and worn, and tossed them aside. It was too easy to put on her leathers, even though they had been unworn for so long; she had gotten much skinnier, and now they were too loose and gathered uncomfortably in several places.

"I'm done now." With the removal of her wet clothes, she had become slightly warmer, enough that she was merely shivering rather than shuddering uncontrollably. The dry leather armour helped immensely. She spread the cloak out on the stone to dry as well as it could and set about tearing her old things into strips.

"Those won't burn well," Gandalf warned, but flicked his hand and said a word that slipped over her ears and the pile of sodden cloth slowly turned black around the edges, filling the crack with smoke before finally catching properly alight.

They spent a miserable night in that crack in the mountain, taking turns on watch, huddled close to the pitiful fire for its meagre warmth while it lasted and then close to each other to share body heat. Gandalf took the first watch, but was unable to wake Brosca for her turn: a fever made her twist and toss in terrible dreams, which she did not remember upon waking. He used what healing-craft he knew to soothe her, and eventually she fell into a deeper, untroubled sleep.

By morning the downpour had given way to a mist, which the sun would burn off fairly quickly. Gandalf roused his dwarven companion with the break of dawn, and bade her to break her fast while he called for his horse. Nórima came quickly, looking decidedly dirtier, and the wizard sternly reprimanded him for rolling in mud at a time like this.

Brosca would have made a smart remark about horses, but she felt too miserable, huddled under the wizard's cloak and eating soggy rations. Her nose was stuffed up, besides, and she hated speaking through it.

"Are you ready to leave?" asked Gandalf, giving the unrepentant stallion one last look of reprisal. Nórima nickered and snuffled Gandalf's sleeves until the wizard gave in and patted his nose with exasperated fondness. "You are a beast, my friend. Stand still, would you? That mud will only chafe unless you let me rub you down."

Presently they finished breaking their fast, and Brosca packed away their things while Gandalf saddled his horse. She felt weaker from the chill of the night, and it took longer for her to get up in the saddle and secured. Nórima, as strong and proud as ever, started at a brisk trot, jouncing Brosca horribly; Gandalf followed behind them, trusting that his horse knew the way as well as he. He muttered arcane words and snow slid off the mountainside to hide their tracks behind them.

"Do you still suspect the Necromancer has his followers after us?" asked Brosca, once he had caught up to her.

"I do," he said grimly. "He will likely hunt you the rest of your days, since I took you away from his grasp. If you had managed to escape on your own, he would have lost interest in you after a cursory chase."

"Who is he? Why is he so set against you?"

"I am a Wizard, and an Elf-friend. I have always been set against the Darkness, and he is entirely of the Dark." Gandalf gestured with his staff. "_Idrinat!_"

That wasn't one of the words he had taught her previously. Focusing on the language and trying to forget the feeling that her mind swam beneath a great roiling lake, she made a guess because of the context and urged Nórima onwards. "I hope that means 'go ahead' because that's what I'm doing!"

They went on through the Pass, and in late afternoon came out onto a high moor. Nórima grew more eager, and quickened his pace; Gandalf called out to him in the Grey-elvish language, Sindarin, and he slowed again to let him on. Brosca's nose started running, and it became red and chapped when she wiped it on the still-damp cloak.

"We are nearing Imladris!" the wizard said with enthusiasm as he mounted behind Brosca. "Ah, Rivendell—it has been quite some time since last I set foot in Lord Elrond's halls. They are not expecting us, for I have sent no message ahead, but we shall be welcomed, nevertheless."

"I dearly hope so!" said Brosca. "I could use a long soak in a hot bath, and a large dinner, and a grindstone to keep the edge on my war-axes."

"You shall have that and more," Gandalf promised. "Lord Elrond opens his house to any who wish a bit of peace and quiet, and the elves of Eregion have always loved any occasion to throw a feast."

The great moors they now walked on sloped shallowly up to the Misty Mountains; many deep valleys cut through them, their sides so steep that even a horse as sure-footed as Nórima would have trouble keeping his balance. But they were atop the moors, and the great-hearted stallion took to a lope at a long, ground-eating stride that he could manage for hours. They were no longer headed directly towards the sun, as they had been before they started upon the High Pass; now they headed slightly north.

They came abruptly to a deep-clefting valley through which they could hear water; Brosca looked down over the edge to see trees and mist, and a light on the far side, near the end of the valley. Gandalf turned Nórima onto a well-hidden trail that led down into the valley, marked with white stones, some of which were small, and others were half covered with moss or heather.

"Hold on, Miss Brosca," he said, and down they plunged.

Brosca never quite remembered afterward how they got down into the secret valley of Rivendell. Gandalf strode confidently ahead of them down the steep zig-zag path, and Nórima half-slid down behind him, hooves scrabbling for purchase on the loose ground. The air grew warmer as they went lower, and the smell of pine trees filled the air, a welcome change from the icy wind of the moors. The trees changed to beech and oak, and as twilight fell they came to an open glade not far from the banks of the stream.

"_Ai!_ Mithrandir!" came a voice like molten silver, and Brosca jerked awake, looking around with bleary eyes. Her nose ran again, and she scrubbed the edge of the cloak across it, wincing at the chafe. A tall young fellow with hair like spun gold appeared from the trees, clad in white and silver, with a bow and a quiver of arrows upon his back and a gleaming sword at his hip; immediately she knew that he was not an elf as she knew them, but surely one of the ancient elves of Arlathan, with a face ever-young and beautiful. He spread his hands wide in greeting. "_Mae g'ovannen, mellon_. You have a dwarf with you!"

"Glorfindel!" said Gandalf. "_Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn. Boe de nestad_—she has been a prisoner in _Taur e-Ndaedelos_, in Dol Goldur, for too long."

"_Amarth faeg!_" Glorfindel cried, and came nearer at once. Brosca stared at him with wide eyes: it seemed to her that he shone with an inner light, that nobody could ever be as good or as fair as he. His golden hair hung long and loose down his back, and his eyes were gentle. "A prisoner of whom? Is it as you feared?"

Gandalf shook his head. "I must seek council with Lord Elrond as soon as I can. You are, of course, welcome to join us in that meeting."

"_Le channon_, but I have my duty tonight." Glorfindel bowed. "There has been no rooms prepared for you, I am sorry to say, for we did not expect you back—assuredly not with a dwarf in tow! Come, this way, you are not far from the path across the river."

They started walking, and came at length to the brink of the stream. It flowed fast and noisily, as mountain-streams did when fed with the melting snows of winter; only a single bridge crossed it, a narrow stone path barely wide enough for Nórima to pass comfortably. If he had been less sure-footed, or less intelligent and trusting of Gandalf, then he surely would have had to be led. As it was, he walked quite naturally over the arching stone, though there was no rail to keep them from falling off if they slipped. Glorfindel lit a bright lamp that had been sitting on the shore and led the way, light of foot, with Nórima and Brosca behind him and Gandalf walking slowly and carefully in the rear.

When they had safely crossed the stream, Glorfindel bowed to Gandalf and handed him the lantern. "_Na lû e-govaned vîn_. I must return to my duty, Mithrandir. Mistress Dwarf, I hope that I shall make your acquaintance properly when you have been healed." With that he bounded back across the bridge in three quick leaps and soon had vanished once more into the forest. Other elves that had not revealed themselves called to him as he went, with laughter and short little ditties in that bright, fair Elven tongue, and he answered with fluting laughter and rejoinders of his own, as merry as if summer would go on forever.

"It is not far," said Gandalf, and they went off again. "Some elves have over-merry tongues. But Glorfindel is a worthy fellow, great of heart and kind in spirit, and I think he shall make good on his word to see you again."

"I have never seen an elf like that before," said Brosca as they went up the path, Nórima mounting the steps to a small plateau with some difficulty. "All the elves I have known are shorter than men, and not nearly as beautiful as Glorfindel."

"I will have to tell him that you think him beautiful," said Gandalf, chuckling. "Glorfindel is lord of the House of the Golden Flower: he always loves it when someone compliments him."

Brosca drew in a breath to reply, but gasped softly instead at the sight before them. At last Elrond's house could be seen ahead of them: a beautiful place, with a stables and a forge across an open clearing, and a grand building with a wide porch. It could not be properly called a house: it was too large for that, with several floors and many rooms, with high arches and graceful architecture that would not be out of place in a palace. Beside the house they could see the beginnings of a well-kept garden, and beyond that a small wood. A terrace path led off the porch around to the garden.

"This must be Arlathan!" she said in amazement, forgetting her illness. "Such a place as this—surely this is part of Arlathan!"

Gandalf led her over to the wide front porch and helped her dismount. He said something to his horse in the singsong Elvish tongue and patted his nose with affection; the horse trotted over to the stables, where a dark-haired fellow took him within. "Welcome to Imladris, Miss Brosca."

Upon dismounting, she found that she was suddenly very dizzy and tired, and had to sit down quite abruptly on the smooth wood of the porch. "It's gotten very warm," she said to no one in particular. Grey began encroaching on the edges of her vision, and she suddenly couldn't focus on anything farther away than her hands, which lay useless on her knees. Absurdly, her thoughts focused on the new scars across the back of her hands, instead of their skeletal thinness. _That one was when the Necromancer himself touched me—his fingers, such as they were, burned my hand._

"Come, Brosca!" said Gandalf, stooping to offer her a hand. She took it and let herself be pulled up, neither resisting nor helping. "The doors are not far away, and beyond that, we are sure to find a grand welcome."

"As you wish," she mumbled, and did not resist as he pulled her towards the wide doors of Elrond's house.

* * *

_**Neo-Khuzdul taken from The Dwarrow Scholar's supporting documents and dictionary. **_

Izul kuthu thaiku tasgiriki uthak kataba buhâhu kusut: Only when the mine collapses does the miner know his true friends  
Idrinat: go ahead/please proceed

_**Sindarin taken from Sindarin 101, on realelvish dot net.**_

Ai: Hail  
Mae g'ovannen, mellon: well met, my friend  
Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn: A star shines upon the hour of our meeting  
Boe de nestad: him/her needs healing  
Taur e-Ndaedelos: Mirkwood  
Amarth faeg: evil fate  
Le channon: I thank you [reverential]  
Na lû e-govaned vîn: until next we meet


	16. The House of Elrond

**_It's come to my attention that I've been misspelling Dol Guldur. My apologies! I'm not going to go back and fix the earlier chapters just for this, but I will endeavor to double-check all Middle Earth spellings from now on._**

* * *

_Refeeding syndrome is a syndrome consisting of metabolic disturbances that occur as a result of reinstitution of nutrition to patients who are starved or severely malnourished. The syndrome was first described after World War II in Americans who, held by theJapanese as prisoners of war, had become malnourished during captivity and who were then released to the care of United States personnel in the Philippines.  
__-Wikipedia_

**_26 April TA 2850, Guest Quarters, the House of Elrond:_**

Natia Brosca awoke in a bright, cheery room that was completely unfamiliar to her. She wondered for a moment whether she'd gotten drunk and found herself in someone's bed for the night, but she didn't smell sex on the sheets around her, and it looked more like hastily prepared guest quarters than a man's personal chambers. It could belong to a woman, she supposed, but that still didn't explain the lack of personal effects. She'd seen ceilings as flat as this in buildings that had more than one floor, though none of them had dark beams so richly carved. She lay still a little while, listening to the waterfall and the sound of someone smoking a pipe.

"Where am I, and what time is it?" she asked the ceiling.

"You are in the house of Elrond, and it is very nearly noon," said Gandalf, and suddenly she recalled that she was now in Middle Earth. "If you would like the date, it is now the twenty-seventh of April."

She sat up, realizing as she did so that she no longer felt ill at all—though she still felt very weak and hungry, and her arms at least still looked very thin. Gandalf sat beside her bed on a comfortable chair, a long in one hand; a decanter of water and a cup stood on the bedside table between them, and his staff leaned against the wall near the door. "Thanks, Gandalf, but what's April? Which month is that?"

"How interesting!" said Gandalf. "We don't share the same calendar. Ours is thus: January, February, March, April, which is the fourth month, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December."

"I know August! That's our eighth month, I think," she said, counting on her fingers. "Wintermarch, Guardian, Drakonis, Cloudreach, Bloomingtide, Justinian, Solace, August—yeah, the eighth month. Then there's Kingsway, Harvestmere, Firstfall, and Haring."

"Not everyone uses this calendar, but I wonder why we share only August?" Gandalf mused. He tapped his pipe into an ash-tray to clear its contents, then stowed it somewhere in his robe.

"What happened? How long have I been sleeping?" Brosca looked around the room, this time taking more of it in. A windowseat sat underneath a grand glass window, curtains pulled aside, which let in a great deal of sunlight and a view of the mountains to the west; there was an armoire, half-hidden by a dressing screen; on the other side of her bed there was a simple desk and chair. The door was shut, but not locked; there were only two exits, but a dozen ways to leave if she had to get creative. The window didn't look difficult to open, even with her meagre strength.

"You passed out when we reached the front door," Gandalf said, reaching behind her to plump her pillow. "You've slept for two nights and the day in between—Elrond healed your cold the morning after you arrived, but insisted that you must be allowed to wake on your own, for you were fighting a darkness that had gotten into your very blood. His sons are not quite his equal in the healing arts, but they have helped as well, and they have attended you faithfully since then. Elrohir, the younger, sat by you until about an hour ago, when I came by to sit with you myself."

"That's a long time to be asleep," she said, laying back down. "I don't think I've ever slept so long in my life. Have you had council with the Elf-lord, then? What has he said? What's to be done about the Necromancer?"

"All in good time! You are not supposed to talk or worry about anything today, by Elrond's orders." Gandalf folded his hands in his lap. "In fact, you slept for a week after I rescued you from Dol Guldur. It took about that long to get to the Old Forest Road."

"A week! I do not want to sleep that long again. But talking would stop me thinking and wondering and remembering, all of which are just as likely to tire me out," said Brosca, quite reasonably in her opinion, before suddenly coming completely to attention. "I'm quite awake now, and besides, I'm hungry—Did you say something about my blood?"

"I did. Elrond said he hadn't seen something like that for many years." Here Gandalf turned grave. "Brosca, I am afraid I must ask you to recount what happened to you in the Necromancer's clutches. We shall have a council with Elrond, as soon as you are well enough."

"Has anyone touched my blood?" Brosca sat up and looked at the wizard with urgency. "This is important! Has anyone touched even a drop of my blood?"

"No," said Gandalf, surprised by her vehemence. "You had no open wounds, and Elrond does not hold to the Mannish belief that bleeding someone is a healthful practice."

"Oh yeah, I'd forgotten humans did that," she shook her head, laughing a little with relief. "That's good. I suppose I'll tell you both when we talk with Lord Elrond, but it's very important that nobody comes in contact with even a drop, and anything with my blood on it must be burned."

She wondered, briefly, what effect her tainted blood would have on the already evil orcs of Dol Guldur. The Necromancer had sensed the darkness within her, but he had thought it a taint on her heart, a remnant of serving some other evil. She supposed that it was; however briefly, she had served the Archdemon, before mastering the Taint. Would the orcs go mad with the Blight, become ghouls as all non-Wardens did? Or would they merely grow stronger? Her blood, with the power of an Archdemon in her veins, had more potency than the average darkspawn's.

"Duly noted," said Gandalf with raised eyebrows. "Are you hungry, Miss Brosca?"

"It's just Brosca, no miss,_ please_," she said. "Am I hungry! Sodding stone, I'm so hungry I could eat a bronto."

"Then there is nothing more to say," said Gandalf, getting to his feet. "Elladan and Elrohir have been feeding you broth while you slept. I believe it is time for a change in your diet. I must apologize for the rations which I had to offer you while we travelled together; I had only taken enough for myself, and I am no great hunter. I certainly could not have procured a 'bronto' for you."

"No harm done," she said, swinging her legs out from under the elaborately embroidered blanket. They dangled over the side of the bed, and she gave a short hop to get down to the floor, which was covered with a pleasantly thick rug that her toes sank into. Sometime during her healing, she had been changed into a silky nightdress, which came down past her ankles to puddle on the floor. It clearly wasn't meant to be worn by a dwarf. "So where do we go to get food?"

"Oh, no, Brosca, you aren't well enough to get up yet," said Gandalf, "I shall have Elrohir bring you a proper meal."

Brosca sank back onto the bed with a scowl, relieved but not wanting to show it: she did still feel weak and trembly in her limbs, especially her legs, which hadn't seen much use for too long. When she recovered her old weight, she would have to work hard to get back her former strength. She had been comfortable and warm when in bed, but now that she was out, she wanted to stay out.

She explored the room slowly after Gandalf left, running her hands over the delicate carvings in the bedframe and fingering the lacquerware of the dressing screen. It seemed to depict a scene out of a child's bed-time tale: a fair prince and a beautiful maiden, gathered together beneath a full moon, with various forest animals looking on in wonder. More of their tale was told in the tapestry decorating the wall adjacent, with a rich light fabric embroidered with fine dark thread, but she had never really been interested in stories such as these. _Dusters don't get happy endings._

Her fingers trailed down the tapestry and off as she turned away to examine the closed armoire; it, too, was finely made of rich dark wood, and she opened it to find several garments that looked to fit her. She got dressed in a loose green tunic and fawn-soft leggings, which had been better tailored to her than the nightgown, and chose a pair of thick socks from a drawer full of them. Her feet warmed almost immediately after she put them on. She hadn't been _cold,_ precisely, but the wooden floor wasn't heated like the stone in Orzammar.

Thus clad, she padded across the room to the window. She examined the gilded glass with interest: her people had never managed such intricate glasswork. They didn't really need it in dwarven thaigs, but they had made glass for surfacers. The Orlesians, she thought, probably had glass as delicate as this; they cared for such things. Through the window she overlooked the well-kept garden, which was vast and beautiful, filled with plants of all kinds. There was a small wood beyond, with lamp-posts strewn along the pathways, and beyond that the valley rose sharply up to meet the moorlands and then the Misty Mountains themselves, swathed in clouds that looked like they were about to break open with rain.

Someone knocked. The door opened and Glorfindel stepped light as air into the room, just as Brosca turned to see who it was. She hadn't properly been able to appreciate his beauty before. She'd always thought that dwarves were at their best when they had handsome, thick beards, well-kept hair, and broad, muscular bodies. The slenderness of elves and the height of humans had always put her off. But this elf was something else. She'd never believed in the Chantry's teachings, other than what they spoke of the origins of darkspawn (Tevinter magisters messing with something beyond their understanding seemed very believable), but he looked like a denizen of the Maker's heaven that they spoke of.

*Glorfindel was tall and straight; his hair was of shining gold, his face fair and young and fearless and full of joy; his eyes were bright and keen; on his brow sat wisdom, and in his hand was strength. He wore fine white garments with gold trimmings, but he walked with the easy confidence of a warrior in his prime, and she would have bet any amount of money that he would have been more comfortable in armour than these fancy robes.

"Lo! and there she is!" he said in a voice like music. "I met Mithrandir on his way to the kitchens: he said you had awoken. He did not say that you had gotten up. Well met, Madam Dwarf."

"M'name's Brosca," she said, and went to sit back down on the bed. She had to jump a little to get on. "Glorfindel, right?"

"I am indeed," he said, and dipped his head in graceful acknowledgement. "I am very interested in hearing your tale! How is it that you came to be held prisoner in the Hill of Sorcery?"

"Dol Guldur?" A little shudder rippled over her when she recalled it. "I would rather not repeat my tale more than once...suffice it to say, it was a surprise for both me and the Necromancer when I was captured by his servant orcs. Lord Elrond has requested a council with me and Gandalf when I'm healed; perhaps you would attend then?"

"I would be honored." He smiled, and it was like the sun breaking out from behind dark clouds. "In the meantime, I would like to know more about you before you were imprisoned. From which mountain hall do you hail?"

"That's part of my tale," she said with a little laugh. "I'm from Orzammar, which I'm sure you've never heard of; Gandalf hadn't. Sit down, will you? You're very tall."

"Very well." He sat in the seat Gandalf had vacated and looked at her intently. "Orzammar? What was it like there? Who is the King (or Queen) that rules?"

Brosca had just finished detailing the ruling system, and how Harrowmont had not worked well with the deshyrs, when someone else knocked on the bottom of the door with their foot. Glorfindel, who had been following her explanations with absolute fascination, immediately got up and opened it. Another elf entered carrying a tray loaded down with food, this one with dark hair pinned back from his face with multiple small braids in contrast to Glorfindel's which had been kept loose. He wore loose trousers and a mostly-laced tunic of gold and silver that looked rumpled, as if he had thrown it on the floor before wearing it.

"_A_, Glorfindel," he said. "Be a friend and give me a hand with this, would you?"

"Of course," he said, taking a small bowl filled with berries and setting it down on the bedside table as he introduced them. "This is Elrohir, Elrond's youngest son. Elrohir, this is Miss Brosca."

"_Mae g'ovannen_, Miss Brosca!" The dark-haired elf didn't look any younger than Glorfindel in face or body, but there was an indefinable twinkle in his eyes that made him look like a mischievous youth, and his facial structure looked—less elfy, if that were possible. He dipped his head quickly. "My arms are going to fall off, Glorfindel. Gandalf said you are hungry?"

"Hungry enough to eat a dozen nugs!" she agreed wholeheartedly, moving so that she sat against the wall behind her bed. "What does may governon mean? That looks incredible. I haven't had fresh fruit in such a long time. What sort of berries are these?"

"_Mae g'ovannen_. It means 'well met' in Sindarin," said Glorfindel, putting another bowl of fruit down on the bedside table. He tucked the blanket over her legs, then nodded to Elrohir. "I think you may put that down now."

Elrohir set up the tray over her legs before moving to sit on the chair; Glorfindel went over to sit on the chair by the desk, though it was shorter than he was probably comfortable with. Neither of them closed the door. Brosca examined everything carefully. She didn't know how long she was going to stay in Rivendell or how many more meals like this she was going to get, but the longer she took to eat, the more likely it was that she wouldn't vomit it all back up.

"This looks good," she said, considering first the root-like vegetables and meat on the central plate. The roots had been roasted with several thick slices of venison, along with several spices she didn't know. A rich sauce drenched the entire plate. Knowing she was under close scrutiny by Elrohir, who watched her with curious grey eyes, she picked up the slender silver cutlery and started in.

"We haven't hosted any dwarves here for many years," said Elrohir. "Our beloved head cook wasn't sure what you would like to eat. We have been slowly giving you more and more broth every few hours since you arrived, so you should be able to eat quite a bit."

Brosca nodded, too intent on eating the sweet vegetables and meat. She didn't remember drinking any broth; she supposed she must have been half-unconscious and forgotten it entirely. Already she had consumed half of the vegetables and an entire slice of venison. It was delicious, and she said as much before moving on to try one of the small, puffy pastry on a smaller plate. It tasted like sweet bread and melted on her tongue. It wasn't as sweet or filling as _lembas_, but it was still very good.

"I'm glad you like it," Elrohir said, leaning forward and plucking another pastry for himself with long fingers. "The fruit and grapes we'll leave here for you to eat throughout the day."

"_Baw, pe-channas_," said Glorfindel, standing and rounding the bed to snatch the pastry out of Elrohir's fingers just as he was about to pop it in his mouth. The grin on his face belied his scolding tone. "That's hers, not yours! I'm sure Maerthel will allow you to eat an early lunch if you wish."

"Glorfindel, my dear friend," said Elrohir, staring intently at his target before abruptly turning to look at her. "Miss Brosca doesn't mind! Do you, miss?"

"No," said Brosca after a momentary pause. "Please, call me Brosca. I'm not used to being called 'miss.'"

"Oh, good!" he said cheerfully, and with a lightning-fast move he snatched the pastry back from Glorfindel and ate it in one bite. It wasn't quite bite-sized, however, so his cheeks puffed out and he looked a bit ridiculous.

"Elrohir," sighed Glorfindel, shaking his head. "What would your father say?"

"What would I say about what?"

Lord Elrond looked more human than the other two elves, though still nothing like any of the races on Thedas. His hair, black like his son's, was pulled back from his face save for a thin braid by both ears. A slender silver circlet rested snugly on his head. He wore rich, dark red robes with gold trim over an undertunic also of gold; the sleeves were long enough to hide his hands. His eyebrows were raised in a way that let Brosca know instantly that he was quite used to the shenanigans of his son.

Elrohir swallowed hastily and jumped up to bow to his father. "_Adar!_ It was nothing, really!"

Brosca picked up the glass cup on the table and was about to try and lift the decanter when Glorfindel took it instead. "Don't make excuses, Elrohir," he said, winking at Brosca and flashing her a bright grin, pouring the water unwaveringly in her cup. "You stole this poor dwarf's food!"

"There's plenty left!" Elrohir said indignantly. He motioned to the tray, still half-full of food. "Persecution! I took one little pastry—It really was quite delicious, I must entreat Maerthel to make—"

"_Ion_," said Elrond, his eyebrows raising further. Elrohir shut up at once, though he didn't look cowed. Brosca took a sip of water, amused, as the elven lord studied his son for a moment. "Your brother is with Celephinnel again."

"Oh, very well," Elrohir said with a put-upon sigh. He bowed deeply and dramatically to Brosca and flipped a hand at Glorfindel, who only grinned. "_Novaer, galu, savo 'lass a lalaith...boe annin gwad! Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham!_"

At that Glorfindel broke out into bright, merry laughter and Elrond gave his son a stern look before melting into a bout of chuckles himself. "Get on with you!"

"At once, _adar!_" Elrohir high-tailed it away with a merry chuckle and Elrond shook his head in fond exasperation. Glorfindel, taking that as his cue to leave as well, dipped his head to Elrond and closed the door behind him on his way out.

"That must have been a terrible first impression," he said with apology, moving to stand beside her bed.

"Actually, that wasn't that bad," Brosca said with a smile. "It's nothing compared to how I met King Alistair. And this food is great. I was on the road for months before I—got to Dol Guldur, so I haven't had a decent meal in a long time."

"King Alistair..? No, don't explain it now." He sounded very curious, but also had the attentive patience of a healer dealing with someone who wanted to do too much before they recovered fully. "How are you feeling, Miss Brosca? Is your stomach handling it well?"

"I don't feel sick at all," she told him truthfully. "My stomach's feeling a little stretched, and my muscles are terribly weak, though."

"That's not unexpected." Elrond gestured toward the tray, and she nodded, indicating that she wasn't going to eat any more; he carried it over to the desk, then came back to her side. He drew down the covers and looked her over with healer's eyes. "Do you mind if I give you a physical examination?"

"No, go ahead." She slid down to lie flat to make it easier for him. He adjusted the pillow so her head was better supported, then started examining her with gentle fingers. Like Glorfindel and Elrohir, he was handsome, but his appearance did nothing for her.

"You will most likely be too weak to do very much for some time," he said as he worked his way up one arm and then down the other. "Your muscles have degenerated: you were underfed for so long that your body began to eat itself. You will have to eat as much as you can over the next few weeks, and then after you have regained a healthy weight you will be able to start a physical therapy which will allow the recovery of—"

"_Fuck_—!" she gasped, interrupting him and startling him with the crudeness of the expletive. All of a sudden her stomach felt as though it were about to burst; her heart raced, her muscles seized, and then she began convulsing and vomiting, eyes rolling back into her skull. Elrond immediately rolled her on her side and shouted for assistance. A nearby elf raced into the room to hold her still while he applied his knowledge of healing. But the convulsions and vomiting did not cease for several minutes, and when they did, she was unconscious once more.

* * *

_*One paragraph is taken from Tolkien; I had to use his description for Glorfindel, because he is glorious. No, I'm not in love with a fictional character, what._

_Sindarin taken from Sindarin 101:_

a: hi  
baw: no/don't  
pe-channas: idiot (usually an insult, but here used in a familiar, joking way)  
Adar: father; ion: son  
novaer: farewell  
galu: goodbye  
savo 'lass a lalaith: have joy and laughter  
boe annin gwad: I must go  
guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham: My heart shall weep until I see you again (Elrohir's being very dramatic, isn't he)


	17. A Long Road

**A/N: Sorry for so long waiting for this chapter! A bit of filler-y stuff, whereupon Nat Brosca dreams of the Fade yet again, spends a lot of time recovering and learning about Middle-Earth, and meets a foxy lady. I'm still having trouble with this character - I want to send her off to live with dwarves, already, but she rather likes the elves she's met so far. She is _not_ cooperating.**

**Next chapter should be up in a week or so. If it's not, please bombard me. I won't respond to everything but I do see it all.**

* * *

_F__rom Codex entry: Aodh  
__"This simple axe is very hot to the touch, as if it's been left near a fire. But holding it seems to make the air around you grow bitterly cold."_

_"Although the elves of the Dales fought bravely against the Exalted March, defeat became obvious. The great elven general Rajmael hurled this axe at the enemy before leaping to his death over Forlorn Falls." (The Veshialle)_

**The Fade:**

Drifting, voiceless, she looked out over what remained of Orzammar. The Stone was silent, her voice no longer sounding sweetly through her bones. She had never before visited Orzammar in the Fade, but the Stone would not be silent except for the direst of circumstances. There were no remnants of life, no memories play-acted by spirits who longed for reality. Great chunks of masonry and stoneworks lay scattered, crumbled, as though the giants that supposedly roamed the remote parts of Orlais had come rampaging through, tossing buildings like a child would his toys in a tantrum. The ground itself creaked and groaned, rent into dozens of pieces jutting out over each other like waves in a lake, shuddering with every slip of stone against stone. The light came only from the once-mighty river of lava, split into rivulets that joined again far in the distance. The Aedros Atuna, the great underground river which had never seen the sun, filtered sluggishly around the remnants of the Diamond Quarter, collapsed into what had been the Merchants' District.

Except it wasn't Orzammar. It couldn't be. Orzammar would last forever; the dwarvish empire could never fall, not even to the ever-raging war with the darkspawn. The Fifth Blight had not destroyed it; the discovery of Kal Sharok had only strengthened it; with the inclusion of a permanent Warden base, they had even pushed the darkspawn back, further than they had in generations. A great fear filled her as she looked out over the remnants of her home; overcome, she dropped to her knees and cried her anguish, an ancient lament: "_Mathas gar na fornen pa salroka atrast!_"[1] The Stone roused beneath her as if it had only been silent for lack of Dwarva; its voice joined hers in a wordless cry,

"Who disturbs this realm?" came a voice like thunder and steel, a voice meant to be heard above a battlefield, a roar that caused another minor quake, a voice far too similar to that of the Necromancer for her own liking. Falling silent, she got to her feet, readying her weapons — her war-axes, which surprisingly enough had escaped the notice of the orcs and so were still with her in the waking world — and looked around, searching the darkness with eyes that saw only shadow. "Who disturbs the realm of —"

The name he spoke was too terrible to hear. She fell to her knees again, dropping her axes, clapping hands to ears and screaming until her throat was raw and bloody. Her vision went dark again, and she did not remember visiting the Fade upon awakening.

**29 April, TA 2850, the House of Elrond:**

In her childhood in Dust Town, food had always been scarce; her mother had preferred to drink her meals, and her father—well, the less said about the sun-touched duster who'd abandoned his wife and children to try for life on the surface, the better. From that experience came the knowledge of how to eat and not get sick: carefully, chewing the food thoroughly, and drinking as often as possible. Even with care, her long period of near starvation meant that she still got sick very easily.

It took three days for the convulsions to stop. Gandalf, Elrohir, and Glorfindel visited often; after the first day, Elrohir's brother also came to see her several times, though he always seemed distracted. Elrohir confided that his brother was rather taken by an _elleth_—a female elf—visiting from the Golden Wood of Lothlórien with his sister, and he wanted to spend as much time as he could with her before she left once more. He did not forsake his duty as one of Brosca's healers, however, and spent at least an hour each day with her.

"Her name is Celephinnel," Elladan said when Brosca asked, eager to expound upon her many virtues. "Her hair is moonlight, and her eyes shine like the very stars. She is compassionate and wise, _and_ most importantly she laughs at all my jokes...She is the most beautiful elleth I have ever seen. Excepting my own sister, of course, and my mother, who has passed into the West."

Passing into the West, as Brosca understood it, was an expression that the elves used for death. They believed that across the western sea were the Undying Lands, where all the elves went upon death to be reunited with their loved ones until the world was unmade. Apparently, some elves had come back from that paradise, Glorfindel among them; she wasn't exactly sure how that worked. They certainly weren't practitioners of blood magic, nor did they consort with demons. The elves in this land were, as far as she could tell, similar to the ancient elves of Arlathan: they didn't die from old age, though deep sorrow could cause them to fade. Ariane had told her of _Uthen'era_, the endless dream, in which their elders slept when tired of their unending life. Could this be similar?

She wasn't enough of a scholar for it to matter to her. She instead focused on healing.

By the end of her first week, she had become determined to get back to Thedas. In the dungeons of Dol Guldur, she hadn't had the inclination to think more on Morrigan's dire warning, but now it plagued her: what change was coming to Thedas? What did Flemeth have to do with it (if she was really still alive, which seemed unlikely given that they had _killed_ her)? If she had somehow survived...what could she be? Was she truly an abomination, as Morrigan had first told them, or was she something more?

As she grew well enough to eat decent meals without seizing or vomiting, she also grew bored. Snatches of song often floated to her through the oft-open door, and elves drifted by in ones or twos, as bright and wonderful as anything—but the sight of so many incredible beings could only keep her fascinated for so long, and the songs were not ones that she could follow.

Gandalf noticed her boredom and decided that she must step up her lessons in Elvish. He recruited Glorfindel, whose valiant tales of times long past absorbed her for hours, even though she could no longer understand more than one word in ten; Elrond, who spoke to her of her healing in terms she couldn't understand even when he spoke in the common tongue; Elrohir, who she was sure made jokes at her expense; and Elladan, who related to her his conversations with Celephinnel, word for word in Sindarin.

She had never been called slow in mind by anyone other than her mother, and Beraht when she skirted his directions and pretended she hadn't understood. By the time she was deemed recovered enough to start exercising, three weeks after her arrival, she could hold a decent conversation in the elvish tongue and knew well many of Glorfindel's stories. Her dwarvish came along more slowly; Glorfindel didn't know the secretive language, and Gandalf didn't visit often with the intent to teach.

It was during one of those tales that Gandalf came in to visit. He stood in the open door listening to the elf tell once more of the fall of Númenor for several minutes before Brosca finally noticed him.

"_Ai! Mithrandir, tolo, govano ven!_"[2] she exclaimed, sitting up from where she had been lying near the fire. "Glorfindel was just telling me of the deception of Ar-Pharazôn. This Sauron sounds like a piece of bronto shhh...ugar biscuits..."

Gandalf lifted one bushy eyebrow, eyes sparkling, when she changed her mind mid-word. "That is one way to describe him. Glorfindel—" he paused, then spoke in a language that wasn't Sindarin, but sounded similar. Quenya, she supposed, the older Elvish language which wasn't spoken often these days and which she had not pursued. Ancient languages were not her purview; she was interested enough in these elves to learn Sindarin, and of course she wanted to learn the language of the dwarva, but she was no Neria.

Glorfindel's golden head dipped and he spoke a few words in reply, then turned back to Brosca. "_Abarad_, Brosca. _Nae!_[3] The trouble those two get into." The last was muttered mostly to himself as he stood, bowed to them both, and left.

"I have come to speak with you regarding your future," said Gandalf, and sat in the chair Glorfindel had vacated. "I have spoken with Lord Elrond; he tells me that you are healing rapidly, and should be good as new within a month."

Brosca nodded. "Yes, he's told me much the same. He's also said that he's learned quite a lot about dwarven physiology from me. My future?"

"Yes, indeed. You have a few options, my dear." He paused to pull out his long pipe and a bit of the hobbit-grown pipeweed he had the habit of smoking. "Elrond has become quite fond of you, as have his sons; he would be quite pleased if you decided to stay here, his House is always open to those who wish to spend their days peacefully. And his sons often leave Rivendell for years at a time on orc-hunting expeditions: I am sure they would welcome your company."

Gandalf paused again to take a long breath of smoke, blowing it out again in three concentric rings that went through each other several times. Brosca, used to his tricks by now, blew the nearest ring out of the way and raised an eyebrow.

He chuckled. "Yes, yes, I'll get on with it. If you don't wish to stay here, you can, of course, go any way you please; in a fortnight's time, I will be departing for Hobbiton and on the way stopping in the town of Bree. There are sometimes dwarven caravans that come through, and I'm sure they would be very happy to take you in. There is a dwarven settlement in Ered Luin—the Blue Mountains, much closer to the Great Sea."

"I've never spent so much time away from my own kind," she said a bit wistfully, remembering the heat and endless light of Orzammar, the mix of Dwarvish and Common, the satisfaction of killing darkspawn— "But these dwarves do not share my history, they would not understand, not really. We are a proud people, Gandalf, us children of the Stone. And anyway that wouldn't help me get back home."

"You're quite correct in that aspect," the wizard agreed. He puffed on his pipe thoughtfully for a moment before expelling a wiggly worm of smoke that unfurled wispy wings and took flight as a butterfly. "I have convened a Council to speak of Dol Guldur and the Necromancer I found there. However, the leader of our wise council, Saruman the White Wizard, will not arrive for some months. There have been numerous sightings of orc-bands in the lands under his protection, and he must deal with them. In the meantime, I intend to go and see my good friend Fortinbras Took in Hobbiton—do you have Hobbits, where you come from?"

"Don't think so, least I haven't heard of 'em," said Brosca. "What are they?"

"Some call them Halflings, for they are half the size of Men," said Gandalf. "They are a curious people: they care only for good food and good company. They have no interest in the goings-on outside their Shire, and are always full of cheer."

She frowned and laughed a little. Something like that might have appealed to her before becoming a Warden, but even then, she would have lost interest rapidly. "Sounds boring to me! No, I don't think I'd enjoy a life like that."

"No, my dear, you were made for something a little more exciting," said Gandalf with a twinkling eye. "And that is why I am going to suggest that you go with Elrond's sons to help clear out a few troublesome orcs."

Brosca had never had any compunction about being called a coward. She knew her limits and knew when to back off; fear had saved her life many times, both as a duster in the dark of Orzammar and as a Warden on the surface. The orcs of Dol Guldur had treated her—not well. She still woke up gasping for breath at the memory of greedy grabbing hands and leering yellow eyes and the Necromancer's foul darkness and that terrible, terrible cold. She would not like to go back there on her own. But hunting orcs with Elladan and Elrohir?

"When do we begin?"

The wizard chuckled. "Somehow, Brosca, I did not doubt that would be your reply. So! the sons of Elrond will no longer ride alone. Only, my dear, if you are well enough when next they depart."

The twins had left only three days before on a hunting expedition. There was plenty of food available in the valley of Imladris, but not much meat; occasionally, they went up in the Misty Mountains to clear out mountain orcs (also called goblins) and bring down large game. They probably would not return for another two weeks, and after that, they might not leave again for a few months. Occasionally they stayed out on orc-hunting expeditions for years at a time, just the two of them, travelling either alone or with the Men of the Dunedain.

Brosca took a minute to think it over. Nightmares did chase her still, it was true, but then she had lived most of her life in unpleasant circumstances. She could handle recounting the trials of Dol Goldur. "Yes, Tharkun," she said in Khuzdul, meeting his eyes squarely. "I am quite recovered. I shall begin recovering my strength and skill today. When do you expect the Council might take place? I do not wish to miss it, after all. I won't need as much strength to tell my tale as I will to swing my blades."

"You would be surprised," the wizard said enigmatically, and puffed on his pipe. At length he said, "Very well: we shall have a Council. Upon your return with Lords Elladan and Elrohir, if that suits you. Do you wish anyone else to sit in with you? You have grown close to Glorfindel, it seems."

She hadn't even thought of that, though a tightness in the deep of her eased thinking of the noble Glorfindel standing with her as she recounted the harrowing tale of the Necromancer. "Thank you, Gandalf; you anticipate my every unspoken wish. Yes, I would like Glorfindel present. I would like Elladan and Elrohir to be there as well; it does seem strange, three elf-lords of such lineage and repute befriending a duster like me, but I am the richer for it and shall not complain."

"Truly, you surprise me, Brosca," Gandalf observed. "For a dwarf to cherish the companionship of elves: why, it has not been so for hundreds of years."

"More fool my distant kin!" Brosca laughed. "I should like to meet them one day—my fellow dwarva. If only to see what they make of an Elf-friend such as me. Will they scorn me for breaking bread with their staunch rivals? Will they think me indoctrinated, and seek to free me from the spell you have surely put upon me?"

She would have gone on, thinking up more and more ridiculous ways the dwarves of Arda might react, but at that moment Lindir appeared in the doorway. She had to suppress a chuckle; something had left him distinctly ruffled.

"My apologies, Miss Brosca, Mithrandir," he said with a brief bow, endlessly polite. Brosca indicated it was no trouble and he turned to the wizard. "Mithrandir—there is—a matter..._most urgent_..."

He trailed off meaningfully. Gandalf stood, his pipe disappearing somewhere in his perpetually grey robes, and expressed his regrets. "Do not tarry overlong in regaining your skill at arms, Brosca. The orc-chase may come sooner than you would think."

"Of course not, Gandalf," she said, wiggling her eyebrows comically, and the two left, discussing something in quiet, murmuring Sindarin. She didn't try to listen in, knowing that if it involved her in any way, Gandalf would tell her. She already trusted him as much as any of the Wardens she had travelled with for so long. And these elves: she didn't know many of them, but the ones she did, she trusted just as much. Lindir himself, though not overly friendly, had always been quite cordial to her, even offering to show her Lord Elrond's extensive library. She had not yet taken him up on that offer; she had never been able to read well in Thedas, and Sindarin had a completely different system of writing.

Glorfindel, now her closest friend amongst the elves of Imladris, had yet to return from whatever errand Gandalf had set him. She wondered for a moment how Elladan or Elrohir's mischief had not been discovered until three days past their departure, laughing to herself, imagining what it could be; she would have to ask them what, exactly, they did to make Lindir look so uncomfortable. She would most definitely ask Glorfindel to recount absolutely everything when next she saw him.

Until then, she would not sit around waiting any longer. If she wanted to hunt orcs, she would have to be up to standards within a few short months, if not sooner, and she had a lot of work to do to get there. She was not yet fully healed, nor would she be for a few weeks; but she could at least re-familiarize herself with Aodh and the Veshialle, which she had been informed were with the master smith Fingaer, and start to regain her old strength. Anything would be better than just sitting around. Lord Elrond had mentioned physical therapy, but she knew her own limits. She did not need the help of some Surfacer who admitted outright that he didn't know much about dwarven physiology.

As she recovered and started getting out of bed, her wardrobe had increased; she now kept a simple white night-shirt for sleeping, and a variety of more tailored clothes during the day. Today she wore a simple brown tunic and matching leggings; she was still unused to wearing such close-fitting pants, but they were soft and comfortable, nothing like the rough clothes she had worn all her life and perfect for exercising in. Her Warden armor, cleaned and every minute tear repaired, waited on a stand in one corner for the day she could wear it comfortably once more.

She pulled on the pair of boots that had been found for her. They didn't fit quite perfectly, but they were well-made and she hadn't had to break them in. After securing the laces, she stood and wiggled her toes, luxuriating in the feel of the rich leather. In Thedas she had only ever owned one pair of boots that had fit this well, and they had been destroyed in the battle of Denerim. In Orzammar, and even chasing after Morrigan, she hadn't bothered to look beyond the Wardens' stores, which — while well-provisioned — were not full of comfortable, quiet leather boots.

A few minutes of stretching loosened her muscles, and then she slipped out into the halls, arching and ornate. Several times had she ventured out before, but never without the companionship of either the merry sons of Elrond or the golden lord Glorfindel. Now she dared to step out alone, walking without particular care for direction, following the sound of sunshine and laughter. Through the windows of her room she had looked out over the valley of Imladris, and what she saw of it filled her with longing. As a daughter of the Stone she had always known life below ground, and cold, rainy Ferelden had not endeared her to the Surface; Rivendell, though, had to be equal to Arlathan itself, and Natia Brosca wished to see all of the hidden valley.

She came upon a side corridor and, upon hearing the faint ring of steel, turned into it. It was a fairly short hallway, with wide windows looking out into an enclosed garden filled with pale blossoms of pink and white. Several slender elf-maids drifted through the garden, bright garlands atop their long, dark hair. Brosca stood watching them for a long moment, utterly absorbed in their beauty, her task forgotten. One of them, with a garland of pale blue flowers on her dark red hair, knelt and cupped a fading plant in one hand with tender sorrow, her other hand reaching to stroke the frail stem. She turned her head to call out to the others, and eyes like a storm at sea met Brosca's through the window.

Not one for shame, Brosca met her gaze. The elf tilted her head, perhaps puzzled at the sight of a dwarf in the elven halls, then continued her work, calling out in a mellifluous voice to her nearest fellow gardener. Together they tended to the wilting plant, singing in voices that would surely put Andraste herself to shame. When their voices faded, they stood, moving away separately without conversing. The one with the blue flowers looked to Brosca again, then headed for an archway across the garden with measured, purposeful strides. She passed through and vanished around a corner. Brosca watched the other elf tending to a vine that trailed across a delicately wrought trellis, not quite as entranced, before a louder ring of steel against steel caught her ears. She turned again to follow her ears and stopped abruptly. The elf had reappeared further down the corridor, walking towards her with her hands folded into her sleeves.

"_Gi nathlam hí, Perchalanith,_"[4] she said, a smile on her lips, eyes bright with curiosity. "I do not believe we have met. I am Ryswen."

Brosca bowed. "_Mae g'ovannen_, Ryswen. I am Brosca of the Grey Wardens."

"Are you seeking something in the gardens, Brosca of the Grey Wardens?"

"No, actually," she said, shrugging. "I got caught up in the moment — wonderful voice, by the way. I was on my way outside, to find the smith Fingaer."

"_Aphado nin, _Brosca." Ryswen tucked a loose strand of hair behind one long ear and turned. They started walking together down the hall. "_Am man theled?_ [5] Fingaer can often be found in the Hall of Fire when he is not working on refining some warrior's blade or smoothing dents out of armor."

It took her a moment to parse the elf's words, captivated as she was by the fluid movement. _This elf is really beautiful._ The thought was a revelation; she had not thought to ever find another attractive again, let alone a woman from a different species. "He has possession of my weapons, which were in need of repair. _Le athae_,[6] Ryswen, but if he is not there?"

"Ah, I see. Strange, to find a dwarf willing to give up her weapons among an elven settlement," Ryswen said, laughter behind her voice. "Stranger still to find that dwarf is a woman...I had once thought you all sprang out of the mountain-side, fully formed, great bristling beard and all."

Brosca snorted. "You are teasing me! For shame, Ryswen. Taking advantage of a poor Dwarva who is in your tender care."

The elf-maid's hair fell forward in front of her face when she bowed a little in concession, a glint in her eye. "I shall indeed show you the way, Perchalanith. Come, walk with me."

The pathway led out onto a terrace and wound through the gardens, widening around a stone seat and narrowing again. It crossed a wide, east-facing porch and went around the side of the House, which was rather larger than Brosca had imagined upon learning it was called a 'House,' passing through a wooded area and ending in a soft-grassed field. On the other side of the field was a stable that was elegant in its simplicity and another open-sided building half again as large, from which billowed smoke and, occasionally, flashes of flame. The ringing of steel-on-steel grew louder as they approached.

As they walked, Ryswen sang more, delighting Brosca with another song, her voice light and fluting:

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel,_  
_silivren penna mirielo_  
_menel aglar elenath,_  
_na-chaered palan diriel_  
_o galadhremmin ennorath_  
_nef aear, sí aearon,_  
_Fanuilos, le linnathon_  
_Nef aear, sí aearon!_[7]

Upon arrival at the forges, they came to a halt. Ryswen bent and left a kiss on her forehead, as though she were a child — well, and perhaps she was, at that. None of these elves looked very old, but they all had to have hundreds of years on her. The fox-haired elf smiled at her, eyes bright with merriness, and turned to go, tossing a melodious "_Novaer!_" [8] over her shoulder as she went.

Several elves were hard at work in the forge; two had dark brown hair, kept long but tied back so as to not get in their way, and did not look up upon Brosca's approach; the third had raven-dark hair, in one long braid, and straightened from where he had been observing the red-hot metal of a blade in the forge-fire. He looked at her with solemn eyes and dipped his head in greeting.

"You must be the dwarf Brosca," he said in Sindarin, voice quiet and deep in timbre, both strength and gentleness in his bearing. "I have kept watch over your weapons for you, fair dwarf. They await your touch."

He was very formal, but Brosca liked him at once; there was kindness in his voice. She replied in the same tongue. "I am the Warden, Brosca. I thank you, Fingaer, for watching over my weapons."

He led her over to one side of the forge, where racks of gleaming weapons made far too big for her stood waiting to be used. Staves, unstrung bows, swords, daggers, long knives — there were not many of the weapons preferred by Dwarva, such as axes either two-handed or one-handed, though there were several Mannish spiked maces. At the back, her two war-axes hung on their own rack, clean in a way she hadn't been able to manage since she had last been in Orzammar. The runes that lent them their enchantment glowed softly with lyrium, and the worn runes had been re-etched.

"Aodh," she said softly, lifting it with two hands, turning it over to examine every corner. The blade had been honed to a keen edge that she did not test. She put it back and turned to the next: "Veshialle." It had been equally refined.

"Ah," he sighed. "I do not know the meanings of those names, but they fit well."

"I did not name them," she replied, picking up Aodh again and hefting them both with limbs that already trembled, "but you are right. Aodh is enchanted to burn those it is used against - and freeze its owner, for everything must have balance."

Lifting them both for very long was too much for her atrophied arms. She lowered them quickly before she managed to drop them, hanging them back up on the rack one at a time. It was going to be a long road back to her full strength.

* * *

[1]_Mathas gar na fornen pa salroka atrast_. Dwarvish. Meaning is unknown canonically, so I am taking further liberties and making it a lament for lost history - the dwarves ever long for their past glory days, but in this situation, the fall of Orzammar, it is especially poignant.  
[2]_Ai! Mithrandir, tolo, govano ven. _Sindarin. Hail! Gandalf, come, join us._  
_[3]_Abarad...Nae. _Sindarin. Until tomorrow...Alas._  
_[4]_Gi nathlam hí, Perchalanith. _Sindarin. You are welcome here, half-tall-sister (a friendly nickname).  
[5]_Aphado nin...__Am man theled? _Sindarin. Come with me. Why/For what purpose?  
[6]_Le athae. _Sindarin. You [reverential] are/were helpful/kind.  
[7]This is a song from the fansite Arwen Undomiel, from one of the movies (I think FotR). Translation is there if you want it.  
[8]_Novaer_. Sindarin. Farewell.


End file.
